Supercritical Arrangement
by ChequeRoot
Summary: For every action, there is an opposite and equal reaction. Young nuclear CEO Preston Tucci struggles to cope with trauma indirectly caused by Montgomery Burns.. Waylon Smithers steers a delicate balance between guiding Preston and handling his upcoming marriage to Burns. In the nuclear world where friends are hard to come by, keep them close. [Preston, Antoine, Simpsons Characters]
1. Chapter 1

**Standard Disclaimer.** I do not own the Simpsons, C. M. Burns, Waylon Smithers Sr, or any other characters from the Simpsons Universe This is a non-profit piece of fan fiction.

* * *

 _Author's Note:_

 _I've wanted to do two things for a while, and in this, I felt I had the perfect medium to do of which finally getting around to that Burns/Smithers wedding that's been on my list since forever. The other thing is to tell the tale of two OCs, Preston Tucci and Antoine Radson; or at least the beginning tale. Like most of my stories, this is a stand alone piece, but it does tie back into past works. You don't have to read them to appreciate this, however it might help to set the stage if you've at least read "The Unfolding of Waylon Smithers" before beginning here._

 _If you haven't, I'd recommend doing so. Go on, take a bit to read it. I'll be here when you get back._

 _Still here? Well, okay then. So am I. Good to see you._

 _I view this story as the start of a new... epoch? dispensation?... whatever._

 _This pieces isn't a capstone... it's a foundation block. __A new start of the next focus in my works: the bridge between the past and the future of Burns' and Smithers' relationship. Needless to say, right now at least I couldn't make it all about them. There's another story to be told here. Preston Tucci, the "naive, conceited, and possibly gay" former personal assistant has now become a CEO in his own right. That doesn't make life easy for him. If anything, it makes it harder._

 _He does not have an easy path ahead of him._

 _This story too sets the stage for his character, and potentially the future dynamic between him and his housemate Antoine Radson._

 _Ever since the first time Waylon Smithers met them, their lives have become, for better or worse, intertwined. Montgomery Burns is like the center of his own solar system. It seems he has a way of pulling people in. Just like the sun can swallow a comet, or pull planets to collide, being in Burns' trajectory is not always a good thing. Poor Preston has found this out the hard way, even if he's not fully aware of it. He's got a target on his back that can be seen from space._

 _In the background, Burns and Smithers remain: each a powerful man in his own right, capable of manipulating events in the lives of those they know. I consider this piece a beginning, not an end. Something that tells a tale, but sets a stage for the future Burns and Smithers as well._

 _Thank you, my Readers, for all your interest, reviews, and encouragement._

 _I'd also like to take this moment to thank my wonderful Beta Reader, **Lady Tiko** , whose input and assessment proved invaluable in sculpting this piece._

 _It is my pleasure to present **Supercritical Arrangement**. I hope you have as much fun reading it as I had writing._

 _~ Muse_

* * *

Preston sat at his desk, staring at the mountains of paperwork in front of him. He wasn't even sure where to begin. He eyed his towering inbox balefully, then glanced at his pitifully empty outbox. Most of his projects involved communications from the Board of Directors: financial decisions regarding growth and expansion, stock handling, that sort of stuff. There were also a few new memos from the Nuclear Regulatory Commission and the New York State Department of Environmental Conservation in the heap too. Probably at least one or two letters from the Plateau City Municipal Department; and god knew what else.

Preston debated getting himself a cup of coffee, but his nerves were already rattled. He relented, poured some hot water into his mug, and fished a tea bag out of the tin in his desk.

 _High power executive right here_ , he thought with a note of cynicism. _Running the company, one cup of herb tea at a time_. Chamomile. It had been Antoine's suggestion. It was supposed to help the drinker relax.

He missed Antoine's presence at his side. Sure, the man could be a colossal pest at times, but he could always relax the mood. He was a good friend. At least, Preston thought as he blew on his tea to cool it, Antoine's taste in decorating was better than his taste in clothing. Directly across from his desk was a photo Antoine had hung: taken from inside the curved barrel of a wave at sunset, titled "Evetide Breaks."

The very edge of the curling wave was just about to touch the ocean, captured for eternity, droplets suspended against the golden-pink sky like polished diamonds. The rest of the water grew deeper, the color changing from clear to light green, then eventually a passionate shadowy blue.

Preston had never been a fan of the ocean or of beaches. Allowing Antoine to decorate his office had been a concession he'd made; and in exchange now wore more appropriate business dress Preston had chosen. The cargo pants, the gym shoes, those were gone. When he wasn't down in Infrastructure, or working on maintenance for the company helicopter, Antoine had agreed to wear the profession attire Preston had so carefully selected. That meant button up shirts, well-fitting chinos, polished shoes, and of course a tie.

Antoine had tolerated it all with good-natured silence, and a hint of amusement while they shopped. He dutifully tried on multiple outfits without objection, though he would from time to time voice his preference for certain styles. Eventually, decisions were made that they both agreed on. Getting Antoine to wear a sports coat seemed to be too much of a struggle but at least he'd gotten Antoine wearing ties. It was a victory in Preston's cultured eyes.

As for decorating his office, Antoine had handled everything over a weekend. _It'll be better for your head not to have it look like it did when… you know…_ Antoine muttered, picking up a glass paperweight with the name Thaddeus Dimas on it. _This stuff, it's not good for your head, Preppy._ He tossed the paperweight in the trash, and wandered off to do whatever it was he did.

Or, more accurately, whatever it was he used to do.

Preston thought of those times as the Dimas Era. It wasn't a phrase he liked, but he could find no better way to label it in his mind.

In the days that Thaddeus Dimas had been alive, and running the plant, Antoine served as Dimas' personal pilot. Dimas made a habit of flying out on an almost weekly basis, as often as not bringing Preston, his then personal assistant along. Dimas' travel once kept Antoine gainfully employed, though when Antoine wasn't on-schedule for a flight, he'd saunter about the plant and chatting with the various employees. There was something rather likable about Antoine, his good-natured attitude and easy-going disposition.

Preston hadn't initially liked Antoine's carefree disposition. When he first started working at the Plateau City Nuclear Generating Station, he'd thought Dimas indulged Antoine with far too much freedom. The blue hair and beard, the hipster clothing; the way Antoine ambled about and didn't appear to do anything useful. Preston would threaten that if he had his way, he'd fire Antoine in a heartbeat.

Antoine would throw back his blue hair, laugh, and reply with something along the lines of _Don't be a grumpy little lapdog. You know you love me_.  
Preston would vehemently deny such an accusation. Over the next two years though, Preston had to admit his feelings had changed.

Antoine, for all his flagrant impiety was actually a remarkably hard worker when the need arose. He was also loyal to his friends. When Antoine invited Preston to start joining him and a few other employees for drinks after work at a nearby bar, Preston got to witness first-hand how Antoine managed to keep their different personalities in check. Antoine was like glue somehow. He was able to soothe ruffled feathers, and encourage comradery. He seemed to have a wonderful sense of timing for comic remarks. He wasn't afraid to laugh at himself, or play the fool.

One night, Preston was sitting in his small apartment, watching a documentary on the wolves of Minnesota. It wasn't that he particularly liked wolves, but he didn't have cable. In a choice between public access bulletins, some sitcom in Spanish, or a wolf show on PBS, the wolves won out.

Preston's knowledge of wolves was limited references made in his management classes, about the "alpha" and the "omega" the business hierarchy. The alpha was the top, and everyone else listened or got put in their place. The omega was at the bottom, and got beat on. The message was clear: be the alpha. That was the sum total of Preston's knowledge, or interest, in wolves.

 _The omega serves a crucial function in the stability of the pack dynamic_ , the narrator explained. _In times of stress, it is often the omega that instigates a distraction either by invitations of play, or even by taunting a packmate to release their frustrations on the omega, rather than one another. While it was originally thought that the alpha wolf would forcibly roll the omega onto his back, we now know that surrendering is a voluntary act initiated by the omega. As such, the omega allows the higher ranking wolf to feel his position of his been validated; and conflict is avoided_.

Preston watched as a rather rangy and goofy looking wolf interjected himself into the middle of a scuffle between two other wolves. He, or she, antagonized the two fighting wolves to the point where they forgot their quarrel, and together chased the omega across the field.

All Preston could see in his head was Antoine. Goofy, carefree Antoine.

It reminded Preston of the day when Dimas had been in a right terrifying mood. Preston had been nervous to even stand near his boss. Unfortunately, they'd both be flying to Albany that afternoon. Preston was dreading the idea of being stuck in a helicopter with Dimas. The man's rage was barely contained.

Usually Dimas was a good-natured fellow. Something had upset him though, and he prowled around the office like a caged bear looking for a fight. He was muttering something under his breath. Preston had no idea what the issue was. He was waiting for a response to an email Dimas had submitted to the Plateau City development commission. The answer Dimas wanted was "yes." The email that came in said "no."

Preston's heart dropped into his stomach as he read the reply on his tablet. He glanced at Dimas as they approached the chopper. Finally, he steeled himself and presented the news. He was expecting an outburst, but even in that he'd sadly underestimated the situation.

Dimas exploded.

He yelled, he swore. He snatched the tablet, bellowed something incoherent at Preston, and prepared to hurl the tablet across the tarmac when Antoine poked his head out of the cockpit. _Hey, Big D., are we flying or screaming? Because we've got a timetable to keep_.

Antoine hopped over and wandered into the mix, reaching for the tablet.

Dimas held it out of Antoine's reach and roared something that included a threat about firing.

Antoine shrugged and snagged the tablet, expression neutral. _Yeah, but unless you have another pilot on hand, that'll have to wait. It's my job to get you to Albany on time, so whatever it is you'll have to do it later. Sir_.

Dimas growled something, ripped the tablet out of Antoine's hands and shoved it back at Preston. He gave Antoine a scathing look, muttered an apology to Preston, and boarded the helicopter.

Preston remembered the look Antoine gave him as he headed back to the chopper. Preston still blushed when he thought about it. Though Antoine's face had been fairly reserved, there was a look at his eyes, no _behind_ his eyes, that spoke volumes.

Preston had held his tablet to his chest, feeling his heart flutter for a reason other than fear, as he joined his boss in the passenger compartment of the chopper. As he fastened his belt and prepared for take-off, Preston reprimanded himself for his thoughts. There was no way he was feeling a crush on Antoine. That was simply not possible. Antoine was so far and removed from the sort of person Preston envisioned himself falling for that the idea was out of the question. _He's a disrespectful, over-indulged nobody_ , Preston thought as he settled in and put his headset on. _There's nothing a professional like me could ever have in common with his kind_. Preston buried his face in his tablet, and reviewed the agenda for the remainder of the week.

But that was then, during the Dimas Era.

Thaddeus Dimas was dead, and Preston had taken the mantle of Chief Executive Officer. Antoine worked in maintenance. Preston made far less flights than Dimas did. He had little need for a pilot most weeks. At night, after work, Preston would make his way home exhausted, and curl up on the couch with his housemate and closest friend; the same friend who once stepped in front of an enraged Dimas for him. Antoine.

Following the incident ( _The Incident_ , he brain corrected, capitalizing the words) that had led to Dimas' death, and Preston getting shot, he'd moved in with Antoine. It was supposed to just be a temporary thing. He didn't want to be alone. Images of that gruesome day flashed behind his eyes every time he closed them. His small apartment downtown suddenly felt too empty. Antoine must've picked up on it. He was the one who suggested moving in together. _Just till you get your feet back, and only if you want,_ Antoine explained.

It didn't take long for either man to realize the arrangement benefitted them both. _You fill the space_ , Antoine remarked one night as they watched a reality show. _You should stay_. And that settled it. Shortly thereafter, Preston cancelled his lease, and moved his few possessions into one of Antoine's spare bedrooms.

Since then, he tried as best he could to tackle the daily grind of running a nuclear power plant. He was young he knew, and everyone's eyes were on him. He felt as if he were under a microscope. It was overwhelming at times.

Eventually, Preston grudgingly allowed Antoine to drag him on a vacation several months ago. He'd worried if he left everything would come crashing down in his absence. Much to his relief, it hadn't.

Now that they'd entered into the grey season that filled the gap between late autumn and winter, recalling their walks on an empty stretch of Florida beach gave Preston something to remember. He found himself looking forward to returning next year. In the meantime, the photos (and the cowry shell anklet he wore 'round his left ankle) would have to suffice.

The anklet was a gift from Antoine. _Because I know you wouldn't wear anything where someone could see it_ , Antoine explained with a smirk.

At times it seemed Antoine knew him better than Preston knew himself. Preston took one last look around his coastal-themed office, then grabbed a folder from the top of the pile, and started in.

* * *

Antoine grunted as he followed Sharon up the stairs to the top of the cooling tower. A series of zig-zagging flights ran up the exterior, allowing access to the walkway around the top. The stairs were open metal, similar to the types found on most fire escapes. Each landing was about seven feet high. The cooling towers themselves were two hundred fifty feet tall.

"All this for a lightbulb," he muttered.

A finger jabbed him in the flank. "Hey, quite your griping, Doughboy. You need the exercise."

Following behind, Sharon, Chief of Infrastructure had decided to follow Antoine on his first trip up the cooling towers to replace the aircraft warning lights. Routine maintenance. For the second tower, he'd be on his own.

"How many more flights?" he asked, glancing over the railing at the curved shell of the cooling tower.

Sharon shrugged, running a hand over her spikey red hair. "Another twelve or so." She didn't even look winded. "And it's not 'just a lightbulb.' These are medium intensity obstruction lights: full complement replacements: four thousand eight hundred watts, with a time delay to eliminate contact chatter."

Antoine thought about the ten boxed lighting mounts he carried in a duffle bag slung over his shoulder. "And how much do they cost again?" He started up the next flight.

Sharon followed close behind, work clanging on the steel rungs. "Well, put it this way, if you decided to toss that duffle bag over the railing, you'd be working for free for the next year to pay it off."

"So about a thousand dollars a light?"

Sharon laughed into the wind. "I like your humor, even I know you make more than that. Try closer to five thousand a mount, and you'd be correct."

Antoine tightened his grip on the strap and whistled.

He felt Sharon prod him again. "Don't slow down there," she warned. "Walk and talk."

"Walk and climb."

"We're one of the few plants that has stairs instead of a simple ladder," she replied.

Antoine reached over and slapped the gently curving grey shell of the tower. "This wouldn't be that hard of a climb."

"Not here, no," Sharon agreed. "But once you get past the throat, you're climbing outward, not just up."

Antoine followed the curve of the tower with his eyes. He'd never given the shape that much thought before. The wide base tapered gently, then grew steeper. He hadn't stopped to consider the fact that the tower widened again near the top. The so-called throat, the narrowest spot, was about two thirds of the way up. Antoine grunted, repositioned the light bag, and kept climbing.

Despite the physical work that Infrastructure, maintenance required, Antoine found he rather enjoyed it. He'd always liked working with his hands. He'd joke that his hands were smart and his head was not. Working down in Infrastructure had been his decision.

After he and Preston had gotten back from their vacation, Antoine explained that it probably wasn't appropriate for him to keep working as Preston's personal assistant; he also had to admit he wasn't particularly good at it. He could help out some, but it was a job that required a different set of skills than he naturally possessed.

 _People are gonna accuse you of playing favorites_ , he cautioned Preston. _And_ , he added, _what I make isn't easy to justify for a newbie secretary. I don't fly enough anymore to justify my salary otherwise. I'm good at repairing things. Send me down to Sharon_.

Antoine remembered how Preston resisted the idea, but couldn't come up with a good counter-argument against it. Antoine knew how people could start talking. He was not about to become ammo used against Preston's career. He'd known Sharon for quite some time; she was one of the regulars that would join him and a few other employees down at The Lucky Lady, a bar and grill not too far from the plant. He was one of the few people who remembered she was a vegetarian. She always appreciated that.

Without waiting for Preston's formal approval, Antoine had made his way down to Sharon's cluttered office, and announced he was transferring to her department. Sharon folded her hands, and regarded him carefully. _What are your qualifications?_ She finally asked.

Antoine was caught off guard. _Well, I do most of the maintenance on the Little Diva, the company chopper, by myself. I'm pretty handy with repairs around my house. When I was fifteen, I worked in an automotive garage-_

Sharon held up a hand, cutting him off. _You worked in automotive repair? Before you had a driver's license?_

Antoine winced. _Well, technically I think it was more of a chop shop. But they paid me cash, and let me drive around the scrap yard. I learned a lot, got experience with a bunch of different machinery. I pick up on that sort of stuff easily._ He paused, looking at his hands. _I'm smart with these,_ he announced, holding them up.

Sharon smiled patronizingly. _That's good, but it's not enough._ She tapped his head with a pen. _I need you to be smart up here. There's a lot that goes into Infrastructure. I like you, but I'm not going to take you on board just because I know you._ She got up and started rummaging through a disorganized stack of papers and books beside her desk. _Here_ , she said, pulling out two books. _I want you to read these, finish them by Friday, and then we can talk._

Antoine took the books and flipped through the pages from front to back. _Home Maintenance for Dummies? Electronics All-in-One for Dummies? Seriously?_

Sharon slid back behind her desk and sat down with a smirk. _They're required reading for all my trainees. If it's too much for you, well, tell me now._

Antoine flipped the pages again, this time from back to front. _No, no,_ he muttered. _It'll be fine._

 _Good, good,_ Sharon replied. _I'll be quizzing you on some of the concepts later. The scale changes, but you'll find a lot of that stuff is remarkably applicable to what we do here. Go one with you now, and I'll see you Friday._

Antoine turned to leave. He'd made it to the door when Sharon called out after him. _Oh, one more thing_.

He paused and looked over his shoulder. _Yes?_

Sharon looked like she was struggling to find the right words. Her brow creased in thought. _Well, you're… you're a bit wider than most of the people I hire. Some of the access corridors can be quite narrow. For you, they'll be an especially snug fit. You're not claustrophobic, are you?_

 _Me? Naw. Not claustrophobic at all_. Antoine glanced down at his familiar paunch. _You don't think I'll get stuck or anything, do you?_

Sharon shrugged. _If you do, we'll just leave you there till you thin up. It'll be like Winnie the Pooh. A wedged bear in great tightness. But we'd probably figure out something before too long_. She gave him a toothy grin.

 _I see_ , Antoine replied, not entirely convinced.

 _Let me know if you have any questions, okay Pillsbury?_

 _What?_

 _You know, Pillsbury. Like the doughboy._

Antoine gave her a sad puppy face. _Please don't call me Pillsbury._

Sharon nodded. _Doughboy it is then._ She smiled, and tossed him a mock salute. _Don't forget to have those read by Friday, okay Doughboy._

 _Right,_ Antoine muttered sullenly. He left, closing her door behind him.

That night, Antoine had sat on the couch, TV off, nose buried in one of the yellow-covered books. When Preston got home, Antoine wasted no time in talking about his day. _Sharon said I remind her of the Pillsbury doughboy_ , Antoine whined. _Then after that she decided she was going to start calling me 'Doughboy,' and she didn't stop._

Preston raised his head from a crossword puzzle he'd been working on.

 _Someone gave you a nickname you don't like? And they wouldn't stop?_

Antoine pursed his lips and nodded vigorously. Antoine was expecting sympathy. Ideally, he hoped Preston would tell Sharon to drop the nicknames, and address him proper. Antoine looked up, scrutinizing Preston's face.

Preston sat a moment, poker-faced, then a smile began to form at the corners of his lips. He drew a hand over his mouth, but not before Antoine could notice.

 _A nickname the recipient doesn't like! Oh what a tragedy! I can't imagine what that would feel like. How dreadful!_

Antoine folded his arms across his chest. _You know what, fine. I'll deal with it, but I won't like it. She thinks I'm fat._

Preston came over and sat down next to Antoine, his thin body leaning against Antoine's thicker frame. _I suppose you could work out, if it bothers you that much._ Unconsciously, Antoine reached out and pulled Preston against his chest.

There was something he loved about holding Preston. Despite the young man being all edges and angles, Antoine thought Preston was the most perfect thing he could ever put his arms around. Preston seemed to benefit from it too. He never objected when Antoine held him. Sometimes Antoine found himself wishing he could do more for Preston, satisfy his dear friend in different, _better_ ways. He squeezed Preston affectionately.

 _I like being this way_ , Antoine remarked, running his free hand over the curve of his belly relishing the sensation. _It feels nice_. He paused thoughtfully. _And anyhow, if I were all skinny, I wouldn't be so good for cuddling_. He smiled at Preston _. So really, this is pretty perfect._

Preston reached out and stroked Antoine's belly thoughtfully. Antoine found Preston's touch far more stimulating than he'd expected. He shifted his legs, drawing one up; lest Preston see the affect his innocent gesture was having. Antoine thought of baseball, and wondered why a belly rub from Preston excited him so.

Baseball… or _Electronics for Dummies_.

Antoine grabbed the book, set it in his lap and concentrated on the pages. He glanced over at Preston, but the thin man was clearly oblivious. Antoine was glad. _Ah the awkwardness of the human body_ , Antoine thought to himself, and resumed his studies.

Reading had never been Antoine's strong point, but he made it through both books and on schedule. It was easy reading. Several hundred pages, but very user friendly. Friday morning he showed up and Sharon gave him a written quiz. The questions weren't specific to any particular page he'd read. Instead, they asked broad concepts. He filled in his answers, and waited patiently while she went over his work.

 _Looks like you've got it_ , she announced, nodding _. Let's take you on a bit of a tour then_. She gestured for him to follow.

Sharon had dutifully showed Antoine every nook and cranny in the guts of the plant. He tagged along behind her, learning and watching. True to his words, he was a quick study. Sharon remarked it was nice that he picked things up so quickly. Antoine beamed proudly.

Sometimes the physical aspects could be a bit daunting, like climbing thirty-something flights of stairs carrying a bag of really expensive lightbulbs, but he found he enjoyed it. It wasn't flying, but least he was still doing something he enjoyed.

"At least the weather's not too cold" he remarked, eying the grey sky as he ascended to yet another landing. "This must really be brutal once the snow flies." They were just at the throat of the cooling tower.

"That's why we do it now," Sharon replied, heavy boots clumping along behind him. "We don't wait for them to go out, and by replacing them now, we know they'll be good for the cold months." She put a hand on his shoulder, indicating he should pause. Antoine stopped, surprised.

"Let's take a breather for a minute," she remarked, leaning on the railing and pulling a water bottle from a holster at her belt. "You know," she remarked as she took a long sip, "you're not as out of breath as I was expecting."

Antoine chuckled. "Don't let the cute teddy bear build fool you, I am a beast at endurance," he remarked, grinning at the backhanded compliment. It was Sharon's way. She'd never say something straightforward, but Antoine had known her long enough to recognize her approval when she voiced it. "I like to go mountain biking, hiking, that sort of thing." He leaned on the railing and surveyed the layout of Plateau City below. "I mean, don't ask me to run sprints or anything," he confessed, "but I could do this all day."

Sharon gave a nod. "That's good. Because after we finish this tower we need to go back to the shop, and get the set for Tower Two."

"More, eh?" Antoine remarked.

"We've got two towers, right?"

He shrugged. "Touché." He ran a hand over his hair, which he'd tied back in a bun. "Well, I can do this all day. A bajillion flights of stairs and a Congressman's salary worth of peachy little lightbulbs? Bring it on." He started off, heading up the next flight.

Sharon quickly capped her water and hurried to catch up. "Whoa, wait for me Doughboy."

Antoine chuckled. "There's a phrase that doesn't get said a lot," he muttered, amused.

* * *

Charles Montgomery Burns eyed the package on his desk suspiciously.

"Remind me again, Smithers, why exactly this is a good idea."

Smithers added several more stamps to box, and tucked it under his arm. "I know you'll disagree with me, Monty, but Preston knows too much. He may be just a kid to you, but we'd be better off keeping him in the loop. Think about it. His employees are used to the regular transfer of spent rods out of their cooling ponds. I'm sure the Board of Directors is too. If that suddenly stopped, don't you think people would start asking questions?"

Burns waved a hand. "Bah, they wouldn't ask questions."

Smithers raised an eyebrow. "No? For the past, however many years it's been, rods are going to 'dry storage.'" He made quotation marks with his fingers. "You don't know the Plateau City plant like I do, Monty. The employees there pay a lot more attention than the ones we have here. I wouldn't be surprised if there's a few whistle-blowers in the mix."

Smithers checked the address on the box and headed towards the door. "We'll send him this, it'll give him an out if he wants to maintain the status quo. If he doesn't? Well, that's his prerogative, I suppose."

Burns glowered, but made no effort to stop Smithers. "I should hope you know what you're doing, Waylon," he purred dangerously.

Smithers gave his boss a confident smile. "Don't worry, sir. I've got this all taken care of."


	2. Chapter 2

Wednesday. How could it only be Wednesday? Preston groaned inwardly, made himself a cup of tea, and hurled his attention at the day's to-do projects. He wondered how Mister Dimas had ever managed to tackle everything, much less make time for touring the plant, and attend out of state meetings.

After he'd gotten home yesterday, Preston sat down with Antoine to discuss options for getting a himself car. Preston was growing weary of public transportation at odd hours. His day-shift employees got to leave at four thirty. He had to stay till his work was done.

Up till that point, Preston had been under the impression neither of them owned a vehicle. He was surprised when Antoine remarked, _You can use Bessie_.

 _Who's 'Bessie,_ ' Preston asked, rather skeptically.

 _Oh, that's what I named my car. She's the first car I ever owned. Not much to look at, but she'd reliable._

Preston asked where Antoine even kept his car. Antoine insisted 'Bessie' was in the garage, where she'd always been. For all the times he had been in Antoine's cluttered two-car garage, Preston had never seen any car in there. Finally, he asked Antoine to show him.

Antoine lead Preston to the garage, and shoved several empty cardboard boxes out of the way, exposing a blue tarpaulin. He yanked the tarp off, sending the boxes toppling, and gestured proudly to the tiny, rusty vehicle underneath. It was a two-door Geo Metro; a hatch-back that appeared to Preston to be more rust than car. Preston half-listened as Antoine went on to extol the virtues of 'Bessie,' and explain how it was his loving maintenance that kept her road-worthy for all these years.

Preston imagined how his employees would look at him if he pulled up to his parking space in 'Bessie.' He winced inwardly, and tried to keep his expression grateful.

He didn't entirely succeed.

Antoine's face fell.

 _Well, if you don't want to, that's cool too_ , he remarked, hauling the tarp back over the car and stacking the empty boxes back on top.

Preston put a hand on Antoine's shoulder to comfort his friend. _No, she's fine. But perhaps it's best I have my own car as well. That way, if you needed her for some reason, you wouldn't be out of luck_.

Antoine had given him a weak smile; the sort that hadn't reached his eyes. _If that's how you feel, Preppy_ , he replied. _What did you have in mind?_

Preston shrugged as they walked back to the living room. _Something flashy, I suppose_.

Antoine tilted his head. _You do have a reputation to maintain_. Antoine proceeded to list various makes and models, suggesting Preston might want to get himself a car that screamed 'player' for public perception. _Unless you want people to get the wrong idea about us_ , Antoine added as he draped his legs over the arm-rest. _That would probably not be the best move for your career_.

Preston was perplexed. He considered himself unobtrusive. Why anyone would even care about his hobbies outside of work befuddled him. Antoine, however, seemed to have an understanding about those sorts of things. _You need a baller car_ , he remarked, dropping his head into Preston's lap. _Something that catches peoples' eyes. Whatcha got in mind?_

Preston absentmindedly stroked Antoine's hair, and remarked he had nothing in mind.

The conversation had trickled off as Antoine became fascinated by some tattoo show on the television. Preston didn't mind. He didn't have much to say.

Tuesday night, before he went to bed, Preston looked at several different cars. His eyes kept going back and forth between a Land Rover LR4, and a Rolls Royce Dawn. He loved the Dawn, the suicide doors, the convertible top. He'd jabbed Antoine awake to show him the pictures on his tablet.

 _If you're gonna sleep here, Prep, you gotta actually sleep_ , groaned Antoine, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. _What am I looking at?_ He propped himself up on an elbow.

Preston showed him the LR4, and the Dawn, asked Antoine what he thought.

Antoine's eyes lit up at the idea of the Land Rover.

 _Oh yeah! That one! I can take my bike up to the river trails now._ At Preston's silence, he continued. _You know, with your car_.

The idea made Preston cringe. _Absolutely not. I won't have your muddy bike, or muddy you, anywhere on or in my car._

 _It's an SUV_ , Antoine protested. _What else are you going to do with it? That's what they're made for_.

Preston flipped to the image of the convertible Dawn, then back to the Land Rover. Finally, he had to admit Antoine was right.

 _I am?_

 _Yes. This settles it._

 _It does?_

 _Absolutely. I'm getting the Royce. There's no way you'd be able to fit your bike in it_.

Antoine snorted and laid back down, re-positioning his pillow. _You won't be able to afford the Royce. Not out of the gate anyhow. That's like a quarter million dollars or something. That Land Rover's probably sixty grand. You could have that paid off in less than a year if you wanted._ He yawned. _Your payments on that Dawn would be insane. Take it from me, it's really best to stay in your income bracket. That's how you stay out of debt_.

 _What do you know about debt management_ , Preston asked.

Antoine sighed and rolled so his back was facing Preston. _I've been paying my own way for things since I was fourteen. Even before I was emancipated. That's part of how you get emancipated: you have to prove you can manage your own financial affairs. Food, rent, you know. So a full time job, and a proper budget. Gotta prove to the judge you're self-sufficient._ Antoine stretched and shifted closer to Preston. _And that's why I have Bessie, not some new car. Because, well, why spend the money? I'd rather have a nice house and be able to take vacations and stuff._ Antoine sighed heavily and absentmindedly scratched his shoulder.

Preston set his tablet down on the nightstand and curled up with his back against Antoine's. The warmth of Antoine's skin was easy to feel even through both their tee shirts. Ever since they'd moved in together, Preston had started sleeping in Antoine's room, in the same bed.

It wasn't a sensual thing, their shared bed. It never had been. As far as Preston could figure it out, Antoine was essentially asexual.

Even now, Preston was still too shaken from The Incident to sleep well alone. Every time he closed his eyes in his own bed, he saw Rhodes standing with his crossbow pointed at Preston's chest. He heard Franklin's shrill and unbalanced laughter. There was Antoine, bloody-chested and dazed, a crossbow bolt lodged in his shoulder… then of course, the bullet that had tunneled through his own abdomen before rupturing out his back, just below his ribs. It was the last thing he remembered, and he couldn't forget it if he tried. If anything, the memories seemed to grow more intense with time.

Finally, Preston had sought the advice of the therapist. Since then he'd been going every Thursday, after work. His doctor had also prescribed medication for his nerves. Alprazolam, better known as Xanax. It helped. It took the edge off. Between the Xanax, and Antoine's warm body next to his, Preston was able to sleep.

Antoine seemed to enjoy Preston next to him as well. He tended to describe himself as a hugger; a big teddy bear, or a cuddly puppy dog. Preston had woken up more than once to find himself held against Antoine's strong chest. Antoine was his security blanket. The days didn't seem so long, the nights less dark, when Antoine was by his side.

That, Preston thought, remembering their car discussion the night before, was part of what made his days at the plant so taxing.

Antoine wasn't next to him; helping him remember to take a deep breath and relax. _You're going to have to do that for yourself now_ , Preston instructed himself. Wednesday. He was halfway through the week. Human Resources would be doing the final reviews for his personal assistant applicants sometime this week.

Human Resources had asked if he wanted to be part of the selection process. Preston considered, then declined. _I trust you to choose the best candidate, but let me have the final say_ , he announced. Delegating. Letting HR do the screening. It took some pressure off him. And having someone to organize his schedules and paperwork, handle calls, that sort of stuff? That would take a lot off his plate.

Preston finished reading his morning emails, and was about to start in on his paperwork when a parring sound interrupted him. Someone knocking at the door.

"Enter," Preston called out. He hoped his voice would carry far enough. The door opened and one of the clerical staff, a man who Preston didn't know, stepped in. He wore an ID badge, but Preston couldn't make out the name.

Preston made a _come here_ gesture with his hand. The man seemed mildly nervous. Preston felt a hint of his comfortable arrogance return. _He should be nervous_ , Preston thought smugly. _I am his boss, after all_.

Preston shuffled a few papers into a stack importantly, then rested his hands on the edge of his desk. "Yes? What can I do for you?

"Mister Tucci, sir, Vice President LeBlanc would like to see you at your earliest convenience, sir."

"Really." It wasn't a question. Preston's face remained unchanged, but inside his heart was pounding. "I see. Please let her know I will be by as soon as I get a free moment; unless she would rather come here." He gestured to his office.

The man nodded. "Very good, sir." He scurried off.

One the door had shut, Preston dropped his face in his hands, and muttered a brief profanity. LeBlanc. Rhonda. "Rowdy" as Antoine called her. His senior vice president. LeBlanc was a career woman in her fifties, possibly sixties, a no-nonsense personality. She'd worked with Dimas since his first days running the plant. Her knowledge was second only to the deceased Dimas himself. The dynamic between her and Preston was distant at best. LeBlanc gave him no quarter for his youth or past wounds. She saw a job that needed to be done, and that was her bottom line. Antoine had summed her up: _If this plant had an avatar, a totem spirit, she'd be it. Rowdy knows how this very place feels, man! It's creepy. She IS the nuclear plant, Preppy._ Antoine had then afforded himself a small shiver, and a grinned wickedly. _She'd make a great character in movie or something._

Preston rubbed his temples, thinking.

His relationship with LeBlanc was professional, but frigid. Something about LeBlanc's piercing stare could make him feel as small and awkward as a child.

Presentation-wise, it would bolster his image to call LeBlanc to his office… but then he wouldn't be able to simply leave if the conversation started getting tense. If he brought her to his office, he could try to order her out, but there was no promise she'd leave. Despite the fact that it gave her the positional authority of summoning him, it was best not to get cornered in his own office by her. He felt he stood a better chance at controlling the situation if he tried cornering her.

Preston stood up, grabbed his tablet, and paused. In the top right drawer of his desk was a small stash of Xanax. His doctor had told him he could take one whenever he needed, not just at night. So far he'd abstained. _I can get through this_ , Preston thought, looking at the drawer pensively. _It's not so bad_. He rubbed his palms together briskly, gave himself a little pep talk, then headed to LeBlanc's office.

* * *

Rhonda LeBlanc had a small corner office at the far end of the administrative department; the opposite end of the hall from Preston's own office. Unlike his, her office was glass-walled, a so-called fishbowl office, overseeing a small "farm" of administrative employees' cubicles.

Preston could see her now, head down, talking to someone on her desk phone. She was jotting notes down on a yellow legal pad.

Antoine's words echoed in Preston's head. _She even looks like a cooling tower. I swear, she's literally part of this place!_ Preston shut his eyes tightly. It seemed Antoine could be just as distracting when he was gone. His words lodged in Preston's head like a song on the radio.

Perhaps that description wasn't so far-fetched after all. In form and color, Preston could see how one might say that.

LeBlanc wore a pale grey blazer over a soot grey turtleneck. Her hair was salt-and-pepper, cut in a chin length bob without so much as a single strand out of place. Her eyes were coal, almost blue. Preston couldn't see her legs, but he knew she always wore slacks that matched whichever blazer she'd put on that day. The woman was shades of grey, never wearing straight black, nor a defined color.

She was not a tall woman, standing shorter than average. Despite her stature, she was and broad shouldered and heavyset. "Solid" was the best word, Preston thought. Adjectives like "fat" implied laziness, and "plump" gave the indication softness. Rhonda LeBlanc was neither soft, nor lazy. It was as if she'd been sculpted from concrete: serious, hard-working, and indifferent to excuses. If Thaddeus Dimas had been the soul of the nuclear plant, LeBlanc was its heart.

 _So what does that make me?_ Preston wondered as he paused outside her door, and knocked lightly.

LeBlanc looked up from her notes, phone cradled between cheek and shoulder. Her eyes flashed with recognition, if not warmth. Her lips tightened slightly as she assessed his presence. She muttered something into the phone then dropped it into the receiver with a practiced shrug. LeBlanc tossed the legal pad into a vertical shelf, got up, and opened the door.

"Mister Tucci," she said neutrally. "Please come in. Can I get you anything? Coffee, tea? She gestured to the coffee pot perched atop a filing cabinet.

Preston shook his head. "No, thank you Rhonda."

He made his way to her guest chair, but didn't sit.

LeBlanc refilled her mug. It was an unmarked ceramic mug, a shade of grey like everything else around her. She took a sip slowly, set the mug on a slate coaster, and tented her fingers. She pursed her lips and scrutinized Preston from the tip of his head to his toes of his dress shoes, then back up. Her eyes locked onto his. She blinked once, slowly, as if thinking.

"Sit please," she finally remarked.

Preston placed his hands on the back on the chair in front of him. "I've been sitting all day, it feels good to stand."

LeBlanc's eyebrows raised almost imperceptivity.

Preston felt his palms beginning to sweat. Now began the dance, the silently intense battle for control. Preston didn't want to stand. His legs felt weak, but he knew if he sat down, that would put him at her eye level. Every time he and LeBlanc met, they followed the preordained steps of the corporate waltz. She would try to break his calm; he would try to exert his authority over her. It was the wolves all over again: the struggle for alpha. More subtle, with less tooth gnashing and hair biting, but no less intense.

LeBlanc appeared to be done sizing Preston up, and accepted he was not going to sit. She gave a slight tilt of her head, an almost disrespectful gesture in Preston's eyes, but he couldn't let that distract him.

She pulled out a thick lavender file folder from her vertical stacks and set it on her desk.

"The Board of Directors has been asking me 'how is young Executive Tucci handling his new position?' I must confess I have to reply 'I'm not sure how to answer that.'" She knotted her fingers together. "So that's what I'd like to find out from you: how indeed you are doing. You seem… a bit _inundated_ with the job requirements. There are… some _concerns_ about your longevity in this position."

"I have no intention of stepping down, if that's what you're hinting at."

LeBlanc raised her eyebrows in mock-surprise. "I wouldn't expect you to. However, that does not mean you won't have to, willing or not." She tapped the folder on her desk, the only spot of color in the room. "There are a few members of the board who have expressed doubt about your ability to handle everything. While you are managing to keep your head above water for now, they're not so sure how long you'll be able to keep paddling."

LeBlanc sighed suddenly and pinched her fingers over her right eye. Whether it was a gesture of distress or aggravation, Preston couldn't tell. In the split second her eyes weren't on him, Preston took a moment to look around her office. Professionally sterile décor. Nothing that gave any hint of warmth. The only personal touch was the recently-used ashtray in the corner. Her office didn't smell of smoke. Perhaps she was stepping out onto the balcony outside her windows. Preston didn't think now was the time to remind her of the no-smoking policy.

LeBlanc looked up suddenly. "So, how are you managing your affairs, Tucci?"

(No "mister," Preston noted.)

"It seems that you're trying to tackle everything yourself, including jobs that aren't yours to do. Scheduling, call-backs, petty administrative details. Why? What happened to Dimas' pilot? You were using him as a personal assistant, no?" Her eyes narrowed slightly.

Preston straightened his back and put on what he hoped was an appropriately condescending expression. "He was ultimately not qualified for that job. I've sent him down to Infrastructure to work on maintenance. I'm sure you know I've already tasked Human Resources with putting a hiring request for a designated assistant."

LeBlanc took a sip of her coffee, and peeked inside the lavender folder. She shut it hastily. "Well, Mister Tucci, that is one thing at least that you've done right." She paused, as if choosing her words carefully. "Mister Tucci, may I be frank with you?"

Preston gestured with an open palm. "Of course."

"Mister Tucci, sir, with all due respect you are not the best long-term candidate for the job. While your personal motivation and work ethic are admirable, you lack the hard experience in nuclear science. You also lack the years in a leadership role to have developed your own management style. You're figuring this out as you go along, yes, but not everyone on the Board is optimistic that you'll come into your own. Developing leadership often relies heavily on mentorship. That is something, sadly, you are no longer getting."

LeBlanc leaned back in her chair. "I have over thirty years with this company. I started with Thaddeus. I know this plant and its operations better than anyone else here." She held up a hand. "Now, before we misunderstand each other, you are my boss. Appointed by the Board to run this company. That was their decision, and whether I ultimately agree with it or not is irrelevant. It is _my_ job to support the CEO, and so I shall… But honestly, Mister Tucci, you've got a long road ahead of you."

Preston tried not to let anything he felt show on his face, or in his body. His fingers were latched into the back of the guest chair in front of him. He was beginning to wonder if he'd locked his knees. His feet felt numb. He tightened his jaw, and refused to shift position even an inch.

"The Plateau City Nuclear Generating Station is a proud company. We employee over nine hundred people in round-the-clock shifts. More, if you count our outside contracted staff like custodians. We provide jobs, energy, we have a healthy investment ratio in the stock market. No one is going to want any of that jeopardized by poor decisions. When it came to the Board, the decision to move you from acting CEO to full time CEO was supported by the majority, but it was not unanimous. There are several people who have their doubts. You've got very big shoes to fill, Mister Tucci. As I've said, I'll do my job; and I believe I speak for everyone else when I say I hope you can do yours."

LeBlanc looked away again, and opened the folder. She riffled through a few pages. "Your credentials are impressive. We've found a personal assistant who I believe will be the best balance to your skills. The person will be starting either this Friday, or next Monday. Human Resources hasn't fully decided yet."

Preston's grip tightened more. He noticed his knuckles had gone white. He didn't even care. "I would've thought I'd have a choice in the selection of my personal assistant," he remarked as levelly as he could.

LeBlanc looked up at him, and her lips narrowed in an approximation of a smile. "Ordinarily you would, of course. But since you've been so busy with daily operations, I and my fellow Board members thought it best I handle this little task for you."

Preston felt a stab of confusion streak through his brain. Rhonda? Fellow Board Members?

The older woman must've immediately seen the slight change in his composure. Her thin-lipped smile widened ever so slightly. "I'm sorry, Mister Tucci, I thought you were well aware. I, as the Inside Director, have my own seat on the Board. It's a position I've held for quite some time, since Thaddeus appointed me. I have a duty and an obligation to this company." She gave Preston a predatory look. "I must apologize if I never made that clear before. I fear I'm to blame. I assumed you knew, considering I was there each time you petitioned the Board during your Interim-to-Fulltime transition."

The wolf was at the door.

"I, for one, opposed giving you a permanent executive position."

Preston realized with a brutal certainty that he was not going to with this battle, not today. He ground his teeth, smiled as best he could, and nodded. "Of course," he said. _Of course 'what'_? He had no idea, but he was not going to let on that LeBlanc had thrown him off balance. He smiled nonchalantly. "Well, I'm sorry you feel that way. I suppose I shall have to trust your judgement in personal assistants. But, if it winds out he's a bad fit, then believe me, Ms. LeBlanc, I won't be keeping him."

LeBlanc raised her eyebrows. "That is your prerogative, but I think you'll find our selection to be an excellent candidate. And I think it would behoove you to keep her."

( _Her?_ Preston's mind yelped.)

LeBlanc took a sip of her coffee. Preston figured it must be getting cold by now, but LeBlanc didn't seem to care. "That's all I have to say," she remarked casually. "Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?"

Preston drew his own lips back, exposing his perfect teeth in a shark's smile; or possibly a grimace. "No, Ms. LeBlanc. You've been most helpful. I appreciate your time."

Reluctant as he was to let go of the chair he was leaning on, their meeting was at an end. Rhonda LeBlanc had already turned her attention away from him before he'd made it to the door. He caught the reflection of her face in the glass wall. She wasn't even looking at him. She was already picking up her phone.


	3. Chapter 3

Preston walked the few dozen yards back to his office. "Staggered" might have been a better description. He didn't even bother to glance at the waiting area. He threw himself in, shutting the door behind him, and collapsed into the chair that had once belonged to his former boss.

He sat there a moment, silence ringing in her ears.

Preston started reaching for his phone to page Antoine, then thought better of it. If he knew anything about Antoine, the man was probably hard at work somewhere. Antoine had his own job to do, and disliked being interrupted. And, Preston reasoned, he couldn't just keep leaning Antoine when things got overwhelming.

Where had this sudden clinginess on his part even started?

He used to be so good at handling things himself. It was probably all connected somehow. Something to discus with his therapist tomorrow, he reasoned. Preston leaned back and stared at the ceiling. He wondered what his new assistant would be like.

Lost in thought, he almost didn't hear the tapping on his door. A gentle, rapid, fluttery knock. Preston sat up. He shook himself off, and slapped his hands together briskly. _Showtime_ , he thought, giving a sidelong glance as the paperwork he still hadn't even started in on.

"Enter," he bellowed.

The door swung open, and a familiar figure walked in. Preston rose to his feet, pushing his chair back. Dimas!

Well, Missus Dimas anyhow.

"Evita…" he said, the mantle of CEO falling from his shoulders.

Once again, he was just the then young man standing off to the side: the personal assistant who made a point to remember the birthday and anniversary of his wife's boss. He would write cards and send flowers when Dimas was too busy, too indifferent to care. That was always, it seemed. In fact, Preston thought distractedly as he came forward, if her husband had simply decided to stay for his anniversary and not go traveling, he might not have died at all. He took Evita's lightly tanned hand in his pale one, not sure whether to shake her hand or kiss it. Ultimately he decided to lower his head, respectfully.

"I beg your pardon. 'Missus Dimas,'" he corrected himself. "An unexpected surprise." He offered to take her coat, and she handed it to him. Preston hung it on the rack by the door, and gestured to the leather guest chairs by his desk. "Please, sit down. Can I get you anything? Tea, coffee, water?"

Evita Dimas allowed herself to be led to the chairs. Preston held one for her as she sat down, setting her purse and the small wooden case she'd been carrying underneath. "No, I'm fine," she replied, waving him off.

Preston sat down in the guest chair across from her. "Well, if you change your mind…" he began, voice trailing off.

"You always were such a good man, Preston," Evita replied, smiling gently.

Preston noted she'd dyed her hair blond since the last time he saw her. He wasn't even sure what her natural hair color was. He'd never seen her wearing the same shade twice. She wasn't wearing contacts today though. Her eyes were their natural honey brown.

Evita had the sort of timeless beauty that would always age well. She had high cheekbones, and a tapered profile that reminded Preston of a movie star. At the same time, there was something motherly about her face. Perhaps it was the faint creases at her mouth and kind eyes that appeared when she smiled. She carried herself with class and style, always managing to balance her matronly figure with high fashion couture. Even now, in this early winter chill, she wore a flattering, slimming ensemble. From her long skirt to her turquoise scarf, Evita Ariadne Dimas was every inch a lady of high society.

It always confounded Preston how Thaddeus Dimas could cheat on a woman such as Evita. Class, grace, style, and not just in looks. She was kind, generous, and sympathetic. It wasn't fair, Preston thought distantly. She didn't deserve anything that had happened to her.

"I'm not interrupting anything, am I?" Evita asked, delicately crossing her legs at the ankle.

Preston shook his head. "Not at all, Missus Dimas. What can I do for you today?"

She smiled. "I feel like I know you better than I ought. Please, call me 'Evita.'" She gave him a soft, and knowing smile.

They both knew who had sent the flowers, the cards. Preston had tried to keep it a secret, make it seem like the gifts came from her husband. Apparently he and Dimas had different writing styles. She'd known all along. He wondered what else she knew. He noticed she no longer wore a wedding band.

"I've been sorting through the house," she began slowly, reaching for her purse. "Getting rid of things I don't want or need. I found a few things from the plant that I wanted to return."

Preston crossed his legs and leaned in curiously. He caught her faint scent, some perfume. Floral. It reminded him of lilacs. Preston had never been interested in a woman, and Evita was no exception, but he'd be lying if he said she wasn't a beautiful creature. Even her scent was elegant.

Evita pulled out a small assortment of small objects: a few key cards, a brass tumbler key, and finally an ID badge. She handed them, one by one, to Preston.

He set them on the desk, but when she placed Thaddeus Dimas' old ID badge in his hand, he stopped. The round face of Thaddeus Dimas beamed up at him, Grecian features and dark eyes twinkling with warm amusement. A smile Preston had seen so many times before, frozen for all eternity. Dimas smiling up from the palm of his hand.

Preston swallowed, or tried to. His mouth was too dry. He made an audible clicking sound, and tried again.

"Are you sure…" he stuttered. "You don't want to keep this as a reminder?"

Evita shook her head slowly. "No, no." She curled Preston's fingers around the badge. "Some things we don't want to look back on, you know?"

Preston nodded blankly. "I do indeed." He set the badge, face down, with the rest of the company items. They sat, side by side in front of the empty desk, lost in their own thoughts. Several minutes of silence ticked by before Evita finally spoke.

"I like what you've done with the place, decorating." She gestured to the various seascapes dotting the walls.

Preston smiled weakly. "Oh, thanks. Antoine did that for me."

"The pilot?"

Preston nodded. "Yeah, him." He blushed slightly.

"I see." Evita paused thoughtfully. "You know, I think I will take you up on an offer for a drink. Have you cleaned out the filing cabinets?" she asked as Preston rose to his feet.

"No, not yet. Why?"

Evita smiled. "Well, in the top of that tall one on the left, Tad used to keep a private stash. There should be a bottle of Laphroaig, and a pair of rock glasses behind the files." She winked at Preston.

Preston unexpectedly winked back. The action seemed involuntary. He went to the filing cabinet and rummaged around until his hand found a small stand tucked behind everything. Supported upright was a bottle of scotch, and, as Evita had said, a pair of rock glasses.

"I don't have any ice," he began apologetically as he brought the flask and glasses over.

Evita waved her hand dismissively. "I'm surprised you didn't know this was here," she remarked as Preston poured them each a small amount and recapped the bottle.

"I, eh, I haven't really been exploring," Preston remarked despondently as he flopped back down into the chair. He offered a glass to Evita who took it, and allowed herself a slow sip. She nodded approvingly. Preston followed suit. The amber liquid was strong, expanding like smoke in his mouth, and finishing with a hot peat at his throat. He exhaled slowly. "Well, that is pungent," he remarked.

"Do you like it?"

"I'm not sure."

They sat for another moment, looking across the desk to the empty executive chair.

"Does it feel strange sitting here, on this side?" Evita asked after a pause.

Preston shook his head. "It feels stranger sitting over there," he gestured to the empty executive chair.

Evita made a soft chuckling sound, but didn't say anything more.

Preston swirled the contents of his glass, watching the liquid slosh perilously close to the rim, then flow slowly back down the sides. "You said you're cleaning out your house," he began slowly. He wasn't sure if this was a road he should go down, but he found himself enjoying Evita's company. It beat sitting in the office of a dead man alone. He wanted to prolong their time together.

Evita nodded. "I'm not keeping it. It's too much house for one person, and there's no real reason for me to stay here. All my family's out west." She took another small sip of scotch. "I've been clearing out a lot of stuff. Things that I don't want to keep anymore, that I won't be taking with me."

Preston took a sip, and listened quietly.

"That brings me to this," Evita continued, reaching under her chair and lifting up the wooden box. She slid her chair forward, and set the box on the desk. It was about two feet long, by fourteen inches wide; and a good seven inches high. The corners had been tacked over with brass to prevent them from getting worn down. There was a leather-wrapped handle, at the top, and two heavy brass clasps. Between the clasps was a single keyhole.

Preston peered at the box, curious.

Evita reached over, and undid the clasps. "The key's been lost, but you could always have a new lock installed," she explained. She slid her fingers into the top, and slowly opened it.

Preston gasped and cupped a hand to his mouth.

Nestled one across from the other in deep velvet padding were two pistols the likes of which Preston had never seen before. At the top, they looked like standard, antique pistols, but below the short barrel a curved blade extended from the trigger guard to a good six inches past the muzzle.

Preston reached tentatively towards the box, then drew his hand back anxiously. He rested his knuckles against his lips, and worked his jaw. "What… what are they?"

"Elgin cutlass pistols. They were my father's, and his father's before him, going back to my great-something grandfather who served on the USS Peacock." She regarded the pistol thoughtfully. "Always passed down to the first-born son. My father had no sons, so they went to me. I was going to give them to _our_ firstborn son… Then I was going to give them to Rhodes…" she muttered. There was a bitter undercurrent to her tone.

Preston thought now would be a good time for another swig of whiskey. He wasn't sure he wanted to hear what Evita was going to say. He was quite positive he didn't want anything to do with guns. He had a feeling neither of those were decisions he'd be able to make. At this point, he was along for the ride.

"Tad, he took it so hard when Alastair died," Evita remarked, tracing a manicured finger around the rim of her glass pensively. "He expected Rhodes to fill Alastair's place." She raised her eyes to Preston. "Then, when it became apparent Rhodes was not like our first son, I think he expected you to take that role."

Preston's hand went to his chest. He would've been less surprised if Evita announced she was his fairy godmother, then sprouted wings. "Me?" Preston gasped, shaking his head. "Evita, I don't know what you heard, but Mister Dimas… he… I'm fairly certain he hated me towards the end of things."

Preston's mind slipped his control, and took him back to that dark time. He saw Dimas screaming at him in the freight elevator as they descended. He heard Dimas' voice sneering at him, malice barely contained: _Some days I wonder if I shouldn't have let you go…_

 _What? Why?_

 _You know what, Preston, sometimes I just get tired of your face._

Preston saw everything so clearly, all of it unraveling. He twitched suddenly. A cool hand slid over his, drawing him back to the present.

Evita was sitting there, in the chair beside his, expression oddly understanding.

"I'm sorry," Preston muttered. "I didn't mean to…"

Evita covered his hand with his a second longer, the reassuring way a mother, or a favorite aunt might. "It's okay, Preston. I didn't mean to bother you." Her eyes grew distant, remembering. "Thaddeus and I, we had our first child shortly after we were married. His name was Alastair. There was an accident. One of those tragic things you read about in the news. Alastair was waiting for the school bus. A clear, sunny day. A drunk driver, _drunk_ at _seven in the morning_ … Tad had said Alastair was old enough to wait for the bus by himself, so I didn't walk out with him..."

("Evita, I'm so sorry…" whispered Preston.)

Evita drew a hand across her cheek and looked down. "I blamed myself; Tad blamed himself more. Some things, you never forget them. You just learn to move on." She lapsed quiet for a moment, before shaking her head as if to clear it. "That was then, and this is now. Tad always spoke highly of you. He saw your ambition, and honestly, he saw you as someone he could pass the plant along to. An apprentice that Rhodes would never be." Evita patted the back of Preston's hand gently. "He never hated you. He had high expectations for you; perhaps moreso than was fair. Tad: he took great pride in his work. He wanted to create a legacy. He saw you as the heir Rhodes didn't want to be, that Alastair would never be.

"I don't understand what went through Rhodes' head. That whole plot to kidnap Monty Burns and hold him for ransom. I don't know how he got tangled up in it. I tried asking him about it, but he said he 'did the right thing' for me."

Preston remembered the news reports. The public story had been an article of an attempted kidnapping gone wrong, with collateral damage in the form of innocent bystanders who tried to stop them: Antoine, Dimas, and himself.

Though he'd never read the reports personally, he knew the gist: Monty Burns had been abducted at gunpoint, and taken out into the Springfield desert. The media listed the three of them as selflessly trying to stop the attack. Dimas had gotten hit just right with a stray, but fatal shot. He'd given the ultimate sacrifice. Everything was a spin he was sure Waylon Smithers had a heavy hand in directing. It was nothing like the truth.

The media wrapped the tale by announcing Franklin M. Burns had been tried as an adult, and was serving time for kidnapping and assault with a deadly weapon.

Rhodes T. Dimas, legally an adult at the time of the incident, was serving twenty-five years for second degree murder and kidnapping. His attorney had tried to get the charges reduced to manslaughter, but it was Rhodes himself who simply stood resolute and said announced: _I did what a good son does_. He had offered no further explanation. It hadn't helped his case.

The media version of the incident was a pretty version, but a lie.

Preston knew he wasn't a hero.

"Life's complicated," he muttered, half to himself.

"Isn't it though?" agreed Evita.

Preston and Evita sighed deeply, in unison, and with matching tones.

They looked at each other, and despite the mood, Preston found a faint smile on his lips. Evita smiled back. "I've learned how to take care of myself," she admitted. "I wouldn't usually feel comfortable speaking about this; forgive me, but you're easy to talk to."

Preston blushed slightly. "So I've been told," he admitted quietly.

Evita regarded him, expression kind. "You're a good man, Preston Tucci. You'll make some young woman very happy someday."

Preston's face reddened further, and he looked away shyly. He was glad Evita couldn't read his mind.

"I want you to have these." Evita gestured to the pistols. "They're a legacy. But my time as their guardian has come to its end." She reached into the box, and lifted up one of the pistols, handing it over to Preston.

He held his hands open, flat, and she laid the firearm across them. It was weighed more than he'd expected. He watched as she took another delicate sip of Dimas' scotch, then examined the weapon. He turned it carefully in his hands, hoping Evita didn't notice how they shook slightly. The words _CB. Allen_ , _Springfield_ , and below that _Mass_ had been stamped into the left side of the pistol. They'd been made in Springfield, Massachusetts. The longer he held the pistol, the heavier it seemed, weighed down by implications.

"I'm not sure what to say," Preston confessed as he offered the pistol back to Evita. "These must be worth a fortune. I'm sure some collector would pay handsomely for these."

Evita chuckled and nodded. "Money can buy possessions, but it can't buy tradition. I've got no reason to keep them further, and no desire to have them around. I don't want them going to 'just anyone.'" She set the pistol back in its box beside its mate, and closed the lid. Evita finished the small amount of whiskey in her glass, and glanced at the dainty watch on her wrist. "I'm sure I've kept you way too long," she remarked, sliding the box over to Preston. "I know Tad would've never allowed me to monopolize this much of his time." She rose, and Preston stood with her; the formalities of his upbringing taking hold.

"Missus Dimas, Evita," he began as he gathered her glass and the bottle, "I'm honored to have had the pleasure of your company." He set the glass next to his coffee mug to be washed, then tucked the bottle back into its hiding spot in the cabinet.

Evita grabbed her purse, and headed towards the door. Preston met her there, lifted her coat from the rack and held for her. _How funny_ , he noted as she slid her arms in. _One never forgets the proper way to hold a woman's coat_. It had been years since he'd been trained in such, and it still came naturally. He reached out and held her purse formally while she fastened the clasps of her jacket and put on her white gloves.

"Thank you, Preston," she said graciously, taking her purse back when she'd finished.

Preston started to open the door for her, but Evita put a hand on his arm, halting him.

"Preston, I know that look in your eyes," she began gently. "I don't know where it comes from for you, but it used to greet me every time I looked in the mirror after Alastair died." Her eyes grew misty. "There was a quote a dear friend once told me when I was struggling. It helped me, and I think it fits you exactly." She laid a hand against his cheek delicately. "'Promise me you'll always remember: you're braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.'"

Preston cupped a hand over hers, and closed his eyes. He rested his head into her gloved hand. There was a simmering feeling in the back of his eyes, tears brewing that he refused to shed. "It's so hard," he whispered against her palm.

"It is," he heard Evita murmur back. "It will be for a long time. But it slowly gets easier. Give it time, and keep your friends close. They'll help you through the dark spots; if you remember to ask."

All too soon for Preston, she withdrew her hand.

He opened his eyes, and stood there, trying not to let emotions show on his face. He bit the inside of his lower lip and nodded. "Thank you, Evita."

"No, Preston," she replied. "Thank you." She reached for the door, and opened it, giving him a gentle nod. "Good luck, my son, and goodbye."

Without waiting for a reply, she slipped out, and shut the door silently behind her.

Preston stood for a moment, arms hanging limply, head still tilted slightly to one side. He opened his mouth, as if to say goodbye. With no one to hear, he swallowed his words, finished the last few drops from his glass, and set it to be washed. He took the box with the pistols and set them behind his desk, next to his messenger bag. He glanced at the time on his computer. It wasn't as late as it felt.

Preston called over to Human Resources, and asked them to send over the paperwork on his new assistant. At least he could get a bit of info on her before she arrived.

Preston checked the time again. He'd finish up more of his daily work, then take himself on a tour of the plant. Thaddeus Dimas used to walk the plant daily. He'd pause to chat with his employees, while casually checking to make sure everything handled according to procedure. Subtle spying with a friendly face.

Preston always felt self-conscious when he was touring the spaces. He felt like an intruder. Both Antoine, and his therapist, had told in so many words to get over it. His therapist had given him a long list of techniques to help him feel more confident. Antoine had summed it up more succinctly one night, his feet on Preston's lap while they watched TV: _Hey, you're the boss! What've you got to be worried over doing your job? Just act all confident and stuff, and they're gonna believe it. We're more scared of you than you are of us!_

 _Are_ you _scared of me?_ Preston asked teasingly, slapping the soles of Antoine's feet and shoving them to the floor.

 _Hey, ow! Be nice._ Antoine put his feet back on Preston's lap. _Me? No. I'm not scared of you. But I'm special. The rest of 'em? Yeah, who isn't scared of the boss?_ Antoine grinned at Preston, then returned his attention to the TV.


	4. Chapter 4

Preston had to catch a later bus home that he'd planned. It was already dark when he arrived. Antoine, as usual, had gotten home first.

Antoine was in the kitchen, a cookbook in one hand, a perplexed expression on his face. His blue hair was tied back in a neat ponytail. An assortment of various vegetables and a bowl of chickpeas sat on the counter. Preston set his messenger bag and heavy wooden box on the kitchen table. "What _are_ you making?" Preston asked, pulling out a chair.

"It was going to be a falafel with roasted veggies. But now, I think it's going to turn into a stir fry with way too many chickpeas." He shrugged casually and set the book down. Antoine leaned his elbows on the counter. "So? How was your day?"

Preston offered a weak smile. "It was… different. How was yours?"

Antoine shrugged. "I fixed a few things, cleaned some other things. Made a few phonecalls. I think I made a difference. But enough about me. C'mon, what made today different?" Antoine swaggered around the counter and pulled a tall chair up at their breakfast bar. He leaned back, eyes dropping briefly to the wooden box on the table. "Talk to me."

Preston shook his head. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

Antoine shrugged. "Try me."

Preston held up his hands. "Okay, but don't say I didn't warn you." He took a deep breath, and rapidly launched into a brief description he'd been preparing on the ride home. "Rhonda called me into her office and basically told me that she has no confidence in my ability as a leader. I have a new personal assistant I didn't hire who will be starting Monday. Oh, and Mister Dimas' wife showed up to give me a pair of two-hundred year old pistols. There. The end. That was my day, Antoine."

"You're right. I don't believe you."

Antoine slid off the chair and wandered over to the wooden box and started fiddling with the latches. "What's in here?" he asked.

Preston knew better than to even answer. Antoine was like a curious puppy when it came to packages. Antoine would find out soon enough. Preston waited for it.

On cue, Antoine's voice cut through his thoughts. "Whoa… you weren't kidding? What are these?" He lifted one of the pistols out and waved it around like a dagger. "They look piratey."

"Cutlass pistols. They belonged to Evita's great-great-something grandfather. She gave them to me."

Antoine continued to slice the air. "That's awesome, but why?"

Preston stood up. "To be honest, I don't really want to go into that right now. It's been a long day. I have a lot on my mind."

Antoine's face fell. "Oh. Right then." He put the pistol back in the box and shut the lid. "You just go relax. I'm going to figure out something to do with all those," he gestured to the veggies. "And find a use for a pound of chickpeas."

Preston picked up a can and read the label. "Bamboo shoots."

Antoine nodded. "The canned stuff is okay, but I can't wait till spring. Then I can get fresh shoots down at Mercutio's. You'll have to come sometime. She has really good stuff. Foods you can't find anywhere else." Antoine hauled a wok out of the cupboard and put it on the stove. "So… chickpea stir fry it is. You want it spicy or sweet?"

Preston thought carefully. He'd learned a long a time ago Antoine's taste for spicy could border between "insane" and "suicidal."

"Can you make it mildly spicy, but mostly sweet?" Preston asked optimistically.

"Sure!" replied Antoine with a nod. "I can do that. I'll letcha taste it too, before I put too many chilies in."

Preston watched Antoine bounce between the counter and stove, cutting the veggies and adding oils to the rapidly heating wok.

"Thanks, Antoine. I'm going to take a quick shower."

"Right," Antoine replied, not looking up. "You do that. I'll be here."

So thinking, Preston walked down the hall to his room. He hung his suit and pants on their respective hangers, and draped his tie over the rack. He placed the wooden stretchers in his dress shoes. Everything had to be neatly organized in Preston's world. He took a pair of sweat pants and tee-shirt from a drawer, changed, then headed across the hall to the bathroom.

Antoine's house had two full bathrooms, and a half-bath in the basement. Though he slept in Antoine's room most nights, Preston generally used the so-called 'guest bath' next to the room he'd moved his belongings into.

Occasionally, those rare times he was home and Antoine was not, he'd use Antoine's shower. It wasn't just a shower, it was an experience.

Preston's housemate made interesting choices on where to spend his money.

Antoine bought his furniture from thrift stores, and most of his clothes from Walmart. But he had an elaborate home theatre he'd set up in the basement. His laptop and car were ancient, to the point where the fact either still worked amazed Preston. Yet Antoine had torn out a walk-in closet, and installed a deluxe spa shower in the master bath.

Antoine's huge shower had multiple jets, a rain head, and several different computer controlled spray programs. Antoine had explained there was also a designated two-hundred gallon heated recirculating tank in the basement.

 _Isn't recirculating water unsanitary?_ Preston had asked, making a face.

 _Nah,_ Antoine replied. _You use this head for the cleaning of one's grimy self,_ he gestured to a normal looking shower head at one end. _Then, once one is sufficiently de-grimed, the recirculation system can be switched on here. Two separate drainage systems. Totally up to code. Guilt-free hour-long showers. Feels amazing._

Preston had rolled his eyes at the idea initially, but as he stepped into the shower-bathtub combo of the guest bath, he had to admit after using Antoine's shower nothing else could compare anymore. He showered quickly, washing away the day's stress as best he could. That stir-fry wouldn't take long, and he wanted to stop Antoine before he went overboard with the peppers.

Preston had never envisioned himself being the sort to wear baggy sweat pants and tee-shirts. Even loungewear in his household had been rather formal attire. Antoine had converted him on that. A pair of navy sweats, a plain white tee; towel-dried but uncombed hair? He hardly looked the lean-faced executive who wore expensive suits during the day. He wasn't even sure anyone from the plant would recognize him like this.

Preston had discovered he liked the casual look. It was oddly comforting, being able to dress down without fear. Sometimes it was nice to not be pretentious for a change, Preston thought as he sat down at the counter. Tentatively he tried a bite of the stir-fry Antoine offered.

"That's perfect," Preston remarked, nodding.

Antoine grinned and turned off the burner. "Hey, I pay attention to you. I'm figuring out what you like and what you don't." He spooned two heaping portions over rice and set a plate down for each of them. Antoine ruffled Preston's damp hair affectionately. "Someone's gotta look out for you, right?"

Preston smiled. "I suppose so. At least for now."

Antoine chuckled. "Or for as long as I can, Prep. For as long as I can." Antoine dug into his plate with his usual gusto, and all chance for further discussion was over.


	5. Chapter 5

Monday morning started just like any other day for Preston Tucci. He and Antoine took the bus to work together, then parted ways at the gate. Antoine headed off towards the guts of the plant and Infrastructure. Preston took the short elevator ride up to the administrative level.

He let himself into his office, and started slightly. A young woman with short hair gelled in a severe pixie style stood by his desk, laying out several folders. She was immaculately dressed in a black skirt, white blouse, and black blazer. She wore an amethyst scarf around her neck.

The woman stopped when he entered, and turned to face him.

"Good morning, Mister Tucci," she said crisply. "I've taken the liberty of bringing over today's files, and have arranged them in order of time sensitivity." She stepped to the side, and folded her hands behind her back. Her expression, Preston noted, seemed ironically familiar. It was the same one he'd worn when he replaced Dimas' previous assistant. Confident, perhaps a bit conceited. Definitely ambitious and ready to work.

Preston sat down at his desk and glanced over the files. Typical Monday grind, nothing too exciting. _At least_ _there's not a mountain in my inbox that I have to sort myself_. "Ah, thank you, Rigel." He paused. "Am I pronouncing that right?"

She tilted her head. "Unlike the star, it's actually pronounced 'Rye-gel,' sir. Though, 'Riley' is also an option."

"That's an unusual name, is it not, Miss Vought?"

Rigel's eyes narrowed slightly. "My parents' choice, not mine, I must confess sir."  
Preston nodded thoughtfully.

"Mister Tucci?" Rigel began.

"Yes?"

"Since, unfortunately I am coming into this position cold, I was wondering if you'd have a moment to go over a few things with me."

Preston gestured to one of the guest chairs. "Of course; by all means. Please have a seat, Miss Vought. So, what can I help you with?"

Preston watched Rigel carefully as she settled down and crossed her legs at the knee. It felt good to deal with a new employee, someone who had no reason to doubt his ability. Preston felt oddly confident as he sat back in his chair. Rigel couldn't be more than twenty two years old, twenty three at the most. Sure, the age gap between them was not substantial, but it felt nice not to be one of the youngest employees at the plant for a change. Preston interlaced his fingers and put on what he hoped was a good _I'm listening_ expression.

She reached into the pocket of her blazer and pulled out a miniature marble notebook and chrome pen.

* * *

Rigel Bella Vought, "Riley" to her friends, tapped her pen against the tiny notebook thoughtfully. She'd known that she wouldn't be coming in as a direct replacement. The spot for "executive assistant" had been left empty since Preston Tucci himself had vacated it.

Rigel wasn't sure how that worked, exactly. The man in front of her wasn't quite what she'd been expecting. Then again, Rigel wasn't sure what she'd been expecting. His features were finer that she'd be lead to believe. Preston Tucci had a lean face, mouth slightly drawn, giving him a mildly worried expression. He wore glasses, a surprise. Most people these days preferred contacts. His hair was gelled in a messy-chic style, and he wore a suit Rigel assumed cost more than a month's paycheck at her level.

His hands, she noted, were recently manicured. He didn't wear any ring on either hand, but he did have a fancy-looking watch. Silver, most likely. Rigel wasn't sure the manufacturer. It was something she decided she'd figure out. If her boss collected watches, that was something she should know about.

Rigel opened her notebook to the list of questions she'd written down.

"Mister Tucci, I want to be sure I know what you expect of me. I know there hasn't been a personal assistant here for quite some time, and that you've been managing most of the tasks yourself. I don't want to be presumptuous. I want to make sure I cover exactly what you want me to. Do you have any specific tasks you want me to handle?"

Her boss rubbed his thumbs together as if thinking.

"I'll definitely need you to manage my calendar," he began. "Email too. There are a few priority senders, I'll give you a list, anything from them you can put into my Personal folder, and I'll open it. Aside from those, I'll expect you to go through my incoming email." Preston listed off a few other tasks he had in mind, including a morning meeting together to discuss his projects and daily priorities.

 _At least_ , Rigel reasoned, _having been an assistant himself once, he knows exactly what he wants_. It made her job easier. Preston (she couldn't think of him as Mister Tucci, though she knew she would refer to him that way), had a clear idea of what he needed in an executive assistant.

After Preston had finished listing his requirements, Rigel nodded.

"Do you have any questions for me, Miss Vought?" he asked.

"Only a few, sir," Rigel replied.

He waited, patiently while she turned to a fresh page. "Do you have a list of callers that I should always put directly though to you? Ones that I should always screen?"

"I'll have to think about that, and get a complete list back to you," Preston replied.

"Yessir. Do you have any names in the meantime that I should be aware of who may try to contact you? Spouse, children, parents or close acquaintances who take priority?"

Preston unfolded his hands. "A short list? Montgomery Burns; he's the owner of a nuclear power plant in Springfield, North Tacoma. And his assistant Waylon Smithers. They're calls I can normally always take. Family? Not so much. Antoine Radson; he's my pilot. If he calls you can always put him though. The rest, well, like I said Miss Vought, I'll have to think about that."

Rigel nodded, and scribbled down the names in her notebook.

"What time do you like to take lunch, sir? Do you have a particular time you want me to set aside and keep free of appointments?"

"I take lunch between noon and one in the afternoon. As for uninterrupted time, I'd like nothing scheduled earlier than nine in the morning, unless it's an urgent matter. And even then, check with me first."

"Understood," Rigel noted.

"The final question I had on my list, sir: organization. Do you want me to organize your desk and office?"

Preston ran his slender fingers over his lips.

Rigel watched thoughtfully.

"Yes. Please. I like things kept in tight order. I'm sure you can see my system, but I'll be glad to answer any questions you might have about what I want where." He paused. "Have you been shown your office yet?"

"Ms. LeBlanc showed me, but I've yet to settle in, sir."

Preston rose, and gestured her to follow him.

Rigel closed her little notebook, and slipped it into her pocket. Her boss gave a brief tour of her space, and listed his few ground rules: quiet music was fine, she could eat at her desk if she did so neatly, and the like. Rigel walked to her desk, examining the computer and phone. It was all standard fare to her, familiar. Preston went on to explain that the mail and calendars were synchronized on a main system. A change she made at her computer would be visible on any of his devices.

Rigel noticed that her boss kept a tablet tucked under his arm protectively. At one point he paused, and looked at it. He gave a shrug, and gestured to her office. "I think that concludes everything I have, Miss Vought. I have a few calls to return from the other day. Unless you have anything further for me, I shall leave you to your work." He turned, heading back to his office.

"Mister Tucci," Rigel called. He paused, brow wrinkling slightly. He reminded Rigel of a confused puppy, the way his forehead creased.

"Yes, Miss Vought?"

"This packaged arrived for you this morning, before you arrived. I took the liberty of signing for it." She reached down and lifted an unmarked box about the size of a hardcover novel from her chair. "I didn't know if you wanted me to open your physical mail, or leave it on your desk; sir."

Preston turned lightly on his toe and walked over to her desk. "That depends, Miss Vought, on who it's from."

"It's from a W. Smithers, of Burns Worldwide Consolidated." She held the package carefully. It was lighter than it looked. Only a few ounces. Whatever was inside had been well-packed. Nothing slid an inch. "That's the same individual you asked to always put through, correct?"

Preston reached for the box, and Rigel was struck again by how pale and smooth his hands were. Not a laborer's hands, to be sure. She released the package into his care.

"That is correct," he replied distractedly. He gently tilted the package, as if listening to guess the contents. His expression had clouded over. Not anger, Rigel noted, but something else. Something she couldn't quite identify.

"Is there anything else, sir?" she asked.

Preston shook his head. "That will be all. I'll page you if I need you." He left her office through route that joined his, shutting the door behind him.

Rigel booted up the computer, logged in using the information provided, and got to work.

* * *

Preston sat down and placed the package gently on his desk. He'd recognize Waylon Smithers' neat print anywhere. The man hadn't even used a prepackaged label. It was hand written in a dark green ink. The ink itself had almost a reflective, lacquer-like quality to it.

 _Mr. Preston Tucci_

 _Chief Executive Officer_

 _Plateau City Nuclear Generating Station_

 _Plateau City, NY 12199_

Preston reached into his desk and pulled out a letter opener, a relic from the Dimas Era. He worked it under an edge of tape, and slowly started cutting the package open. Finally, he managed to open the box. He dumped out a handful of packing material onto his desk. He was not entirely surprised to find it contained a second, smaller box. This one was about the size of a small paperback book.

This one simply had his name, written in the same green ink.

It was not as heavily bound as the outer package, and Preston opened it easily.

At the center of everything was a nondescript grey smartphone, and a note closed with a wax seal the same shade of green as the ink. The shield, the hunting horn, the fleur-de-lis. Preston might not have been a student of heraldry, but he could recognize the same crest he'd seen hanging above a mantle at Burns Manor. The only difference was the trim around the edge. At the boundary of the imprint were two names: Waylon J. Smithers. C. Montgomery Burns; or possibly in the other order. Preston didn't think it much mattered.

He split the seal, and took out a small piece of thick paper.

The note began without preamble.

 _Preston, we have business to discuss. This phone is untraceable and untappable. Put a passcode on it, and only use it in a private location. It will only dial the numbers programmed into it. I would like to hear from you at your earliest convenience. Thank you. Waylon._

With a snort, Preston stuffed the letter back into its envelope. As if he didn't have enough on his plate. As if there weren't already too many things demanding his attention. Preston checked his watch. Springfield was several timezones behind Plateau City, but it would be late enough to call.

 _Why am I doing this?_ he asked himself as he turned the phone on and waited for it to boot up. He already knew the answer. Ignoring Montgomery Burns, or his associate Waylon Smithers, would only make the problem worse later on. Those two, either one actually, would not drop this matter.

The phone had finally finished booting up, and now displayed the home screen.

Preston tabbed into the contacts list. Everything had been almost completely restricted. Preston couldn't access the internet, make changes to the address book, or adjust the settings. The numbers in the address book were for both Burns and Smithers respectively, private lines as far as Preston could tell. The numbers were not displayed. They were only listed by initials, and times.

Preston fired off a "Do Not Disturb" alert to Rigel. Unless the end of the word was coming, he was not to be bothered. _Or perhaps not even then_ , he thought sourly. If the world ended, at least it would take his problems with it.

He spun his chair so he faced the window, and looked out over the view of his nuclear plant. Knowing he'd regret it, Preston selected a contact "WJS – anytime," and hit "call."


	6. Chapter 6

Across the country, Waylon Smithers was expecting a call. He'd received an alert that the package had been signed for and received. He'd explained to Monty he'd be coming in late that morning. He stood in his room, overlooking the rear grounds of the estate.

The snow had come early that year. Smithers had worried about his peafowl, but Burns assured him the "loathsome brutes" were of hardy stock, and would survive the cold. Just to be sure though, part of the old stables had been converted into a heated barn for the birds to retreat to at night.

The peafowl, however, did not seem to share in Smithers' concern. The strode elegantly through the snow, utterly indifferent to the cold. One of the pied birds was currently foraging along the veranda. They'd become remarkably tame, despite Burns' repeated efforts to shoo them away from the manor and gardens.

Smithers' cell phone buzzed. _About time_ , he thought with mild annoyance. The package had been signed for over an hour ago. He snatched his phone from the table by the piano.

"Hello, Preston."

Preston Tucci's familiar voice came through the receiver. "Waylon. Good morning."

There was an awkward pause. Smithers drummed his fingers on the table impatiently. "Well, it seems I'm going first," he observed. He flopped down into a nearby chair, and stared out at the clear winter sky. "Do you have any idea what this is about, Preston."

A sigh, then an answer. "I don't want to ask," Preston replied.

Smithers could read between the lines. "Yes," Smithers, began. "This is about AlkaliStark. But more importantly, this is about you. Monty may disagree with me, and you might not believe me Preston, but I have your best interests at heart."

"I see…" Preston's voice was full of skepticism.

"Look, Preston," Smithers cut in. "I'll get to the point. For the past twenty years or so, your plant's been sending spent fuel rods west, to us. And we've been storing them. No one's questioned it. Monty… eh, Mister Burns, handled all that. The man's got a gift. Anyhow, in all that time, the rods in your pool have been rotating out. Hot assemblies go in, cool assemblies go out; right?"  
"I suppose."

"You 'suppose?' Preston? There's nothing to 'suppose.' That's exactly how it's been… until a few months ago. You've got time before you need to swap out the fuel assemblies in Reactor Two, but Reactor One will be due for refueling next fall, unless I miss my guess. I'm sure you know each assembly has about a three year lifespan?"

Preston's silence gave Smithers reason to think the young CEO did _not_ know that.

Smithers didn't wait for a reply. "So, here's the situation. Like clockwork, old assemblies go out, new ones come in. What happens, Preston, when the old ones stop going out?"  
"We re-rack, as per Nuclear Regulatory Commission protocol."

Smithers drummed his fingers impatiently. "Exactly. And then what?"

"What do you mean, Waylon?" Preston sounded irritated. Smithers could relate.

"Preston, think about it for a minute. For most of your plant's operating period, no one has ever questioned where those spent assemblies go, right? When they _stop_ going, Preston, people will question it. 'Why aren't they shipping out anymore,' people will ask. And then, _Preston_ , you will find yourself in a _very_ uncomfortable position. Eyes will be on you in ways you don't want them; trust me."

Smithers got up and removed a pack of cigarettes from his dresser drawer. He tucked on in his pocket and looked longingly out at the balcony. How could was it out there? It couldn't be that cold he decided. He threw on a down parka and stepped outside. Damn, it was colder than he expected.

Preston was trying to justify his inaction. Smithers barely listened. He lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply. "Look Preston," he groaned, "People notice changes. If something's the same way it's always been, no one questions it. When something changes, everyone notices. It starts at the employee level. Operators, engineers. They'll start asking questions, and your management team will hear about it. When your middle managers ask, the upper level starts wondering. Soon everyone from the janitor to the Board knows the procedure's changed."

Smithers tried balancing his phone between his shoulder and ear, and putting his hands in his pocket. The phone was too sleek, it started to slide. Smithers muttered a brief curse and grabbed it.

"What was that?" Preston asked, concerned.

"Almost dropped my phone." Smithers took another drag from his cigarette. "When things change, people get nosy. Do you really want the board asking you where the spent fuel's been going? Are you prepared to lie, possibly under oath, about what's been going on? Hell, Preston, do you have the mettle to handle a full-on investigation? Because, quite honestly, I'm not sure you do."

"I, uh…" Preston stuttered.

Smithers cut him off again. "Not the least of which, I have a vested interest in this. Do you think I really want to risk my company, Mister Burns' company, getting thrown into a spotlight like that? The truth is, Preston, Burns Consolidated can handle it. We've got the connections, we've got the lawyers. It's be a major headache, but it won't break us. You, on the other hand? Well, you stand to lose everything. And I do mean _everything!_ "

Smithers started ticking off points on his fingers, forgetting Preston couldn't see. "Career, reputation, freedom. You know time in prison is a very real outcome of a Federal investigation, right?"

Preston made a squeaking sound.

Smithers ignored it.

"So, you really don't have a choice. The only action you can take is to continue doing the transfers Dimas and Mister Burns arranged all those years ago. If you don't, well, when the authorities are prowling at your door, don't say I didn't warn you."

Smithers flicked a pill of ash over the edge of the balcony where it landed on the white blanket below.

Preston seemed to have found his voice. "Is that a threat, Waylon?"

Smithers choked, caught off guard. He sputtered for a second. "A threat? God no, Preston. Is that what you think I'd do? I'm trying to _help_ you! I don't want to see you fail. I want to see you succeed at this! Honestly, I do." Smithers shifted the phone to his other ear. "You're my _friend_ , Preston. You're young, and inexperienced, and you have no idea how ruthless politics of the business world can be!"

"I think I do know," Preston shot back, his words harsh. "I was shot. Do you think I want to relive the moment?"

Smithers shook his head sadly. "Preston, those are topics for another night. Over drinks. I promise." His cigarette had burned down to the bitter filter. Smithers pinched the glowing ember into the snow, and tucked the butt in his pocket. "I'm trying to look out for you. Monty thinks I'm a fool. He thinks I'll put us all in the frying pan for even mentioning this to you, but I disagree. He doesn't know you. I like to think I do. All I'm saying is 'think about it.' But I really hope, ultimately for your sake, that you say 'yes.'"

"Suppose I do say yes," Preston began slowly. "What happens next?"

Smithers smiled into the phone. "Periodically your cool assemblies will be shipped off to a certain dry storage facility, and the cycle repeats itself. Remember, the NRC has signed off on this, even if they didn't realize it at the time. Business as usual, and all perfectly legal."

"Business as usual," muttered Preston quietly. "What choice do I have, Waylon?"

"In all likelihood? Probably none, honestly, if you want to avoid an inquiry."

Preston made a groaning sound. "Well, I suppose there's my decision."

"You're in?"

Preston sighed heavily, the sound crackling through the receiver. "I'll think about it, but probably yes. I'm in."

Smithers rubbed his hands together. "Excellent." He beamed, though he knew Preston couldn't see it. "You've made the right choice. I look forward to working with you in the future."

"Yeah," Preston relented. "Me too."

Smithers paused. Something in Preston's tone concerned him. "Are you… feeling okay?" Smithers asked.

"Just tired, that's all," Preston replied.

Smithers wasn't sure he believed that. He glanced at his calendar. "Look, in the not-to-distant future Monty and I are hosting a little get-together. I want you and Antoine to come out for it."

"I don't know if I can spare the time."

"You'll make it happen. In the meantime, I'd advise you start thinking up some initiative programs. Get your name out there as the figurehead for some new contributions or civic venture. You may think you're running a nuclear plant, but you're a public figure now."

Preston's voice sounded far away. "Like what, Waylon?"

Smithers shook his head. "God, Preston. I don't know. Look around, your plant and your community. See what can be changed. Get your name out there. Mister Burns donates significant amounts to charities, and has hosted more than a few black-tie fundraisers. Find something you see that could be improved, and a way that it could help your company." Smithers glanced at his watch. It was getting late. "I can't tell you what to do, but think of something, okay?"

"I'll try."

"That's a start." Smithers was about to sign off when Preston's voice cut through the line again.

"Waylon?"

Smithers tried to hide his impatience. "Yes, Preston?"

"Thank you."

Smithers paused, taken back. "Uhm, you're welcome… but for what?"

Preston's voice had a haggard edge to it. "I know you're just trying to help, and I appreciate that you're looking out for me. I don't mean to sound ungrateful. I just… I have a lot on my mind." The unmoderated emotion in Preston's voice was easy to pick up.

Smithers felt his irritation melting away, replaced with what? Sympathy maybe? Empathy? Smithers wasn't sure.

"It's okay Preston. I know we don't talk much, but for what it's worth, I do consider you a friend. I want you to know that, okay?"

"Thanks Waylon, that means a lot to me."

"I'm glad."

There was a brief pause, then Preston spoke again.

"Thanks for the time, Waylon. I appreciate it."  
Smithers nodded. "You're welcome. But now, I have to get going." He glanced at the clock again. "And I'm sure you do too. Good luck, Preston. You'll get this sorted out."

They disconnected, and Smithers dropped his phone into his pocket. He padded the mirror and straightened his bowtie. _I hope that kid figures this out_ , he thought to himself as he headed down to the garage. _He's got a long road ahead of him_.

* * *

"You're late, Smithers," Montgomery Burns observed from behind his desk.

The thin man sat hunched at his desk, silhouetted against the grey winter sky. He leaned forward as Smithers approached, fingers curled like claws around the arms of his chair. Burns drew his lips back. He looked less like a man, and more like an ancient predator who had not yet forgotten the taste of blood.

"Your tardiness displeases me."

Smithers nodded as he hung his parka on the coat rack. "I'm sorry sir. It took me a bit longer than I expected to tie up loose ends with Preston."

Burns licked his lips. "Is young Tucci coming to heel?"

"I believe so, yes," Smithers replied.

Burns drew his hands up. Thoughtfully, he toyed with the white gold ring on his right hand before continuing. The gesture was deliberate, and designed to catch Smithers' eye. It worked. Smithers glanced down at his own right hand, to a matching band on his ring finger.

"Sit," Burns instructed, gesturing to a chair by his desk.

Smithers crossed the enormous office, and sat down in a high-backed chair by the window. Burns and stalked over to Smithers, a casual grace to his motion. He perched himself on the armrest, and leaned his body towards Smithers. He reached out, and rested a long-fingered hand on Smithers' shoulder.

"Tell me, Waylon, what do you really hope to accomplish with your involvement?"

Smithers tilted his head up, looking eye to eye with his boss.

"Preston's young, but I don't want to see him wreck," Smithers admitted with a shrug.

The corner of Burns' mouth twitched. A smile, or perhaps a sneer. "Do you sincerely think people can be transformed, Smithers? Are you truly willing to waste your time and effort on that languid soul?" Burns made a scoffing sound. "In your time that you've known me, have I honestly changed that much?" Burns sunk his fingers painfully deep into Smithers' shoulder for emphasis. His blue eyes bore into Smithers' brown with a furious intensity.

Smithers resisted the natural impulse to wince, or shy away. Burns' grasp hurt, yes; but there was a purpose to it. Power. Control. Burns, for all his frailty, had the crushing grip of an eagle's talons and he wasn't shy to use it when it seemed appropriate.

There would be bruises, Smithers knew.

Burns had left them before.

It wasn't necessarily a bad thing.

Smithers knew he was supposed to look away. Defer to Burns now, and the vicelike grip would lessen.

Smithers did avert his eyes, but only for a moment. Without warning, he reached up and grabbed Burns' hand with his own. His fingers curled around Burns' thin wrist. Burns' eyes widened in shock. Startled, Burns made to jerk his hand away, but Smithers held fast.

"Monty," Smithers began slowly. "You've changed completely. Perhaps not so the average joe would notice, but I see it every day."

Burns wriggled his hand, but Smithers only clamped down harder. "Do you honestly expect me to believe that ten years ago you'd be calling Larry, his wife and kids, and inviting them up for our little, eh, upcoming event?" Smithers leaned his face closer to Burns. "You _have_ changed Monty." Smithers held his hand up, showing him the ring.

"Bah," Burns growled. He looked away and chewed the inside of his lip thoughtfully. "So you think now I've gone soft, eh? Some sentimental old fool, blind and moonstruck into witless oblivion? Ah, you're naïve Waylon. It's just a token, a trinket from some past era. Don't read too much into it."

 _Don't read too much into it? Really?_ Smithers laughed, in spite of himself. "Ah, Monty, thou doth protest too much! As I recall _you_ asked me to marry you. _You_ went about setting a date. _You_ invited Larry and his family. All this and you claim to be the same old tyrant you always were?"

Burns struggled valiantly, but Smithers didn't relax his grip. If anything, he tightened it more.

* * *

 _Damn his insolent hide_ , Burns thought, glaring down into the smug eyes of his former assistant, and now his lover. He tried prying Smithers' fingers from his wrist, but to no avail. Smithers had him trapped.

"Fine, fine," Burns snarled. "I confess, perhaps I have changed a bit, Waylon."

Smithers gave him a self-satisfied smirk, but Burns wasn't finished yet.

"Waylon, once again you project your hopes upon my actions. It was a spur of the moment thing. I'm sure I would never have made such a request if you hadn't been soporose in the midst of that wreck. I was merely overcome with emotion when you regained consciousness." There was an uncomfortable tightness in Burns' chest as he recalled the image. Smithers, lying dead to the world, hooked up to various machines in a hospital bed. He coughed, trying to expel whatever was causing the sensation. Alas, the feelings remained.

Ah, but pride was always the answer, was it not?

"I can assure you, it won't happen again," Burns announced arrogantly. He straightened himself up as best he could, increasing the angle of his face. Best to put some distance between Smithers' mouth and his; lest the younger man's seditious nature only excite him further. There was something delightfully enticing about Smithers' newfound sauciness.

Burns found himself longing to kiss those impertinent lips that saw fit to smirk at him. Maybe even bite them, to remind Smithers who was in charge.

Words escaped his mouth that he hadn't uttered in over four decades. Words he thought he'd never utter again. "Waylon Smithers," he whispered, voice soaked with hunger. "Cheeky scoundrel…"

Smithers winked at him, and gave a pert flip of his head. He put a single finger over Burns' lips and made a shushing sound. "Don't tempt me Monty. You're not the only one who's changed."

Burns hadn't realized his grip had loosened, but Smithers must've. With an easy flick of his wrist, Smithers cast Burns' hand from his shoulder, and stood up quickly. Smithers leaned his hands on either side of Burns' and batted his eyes enticingly. "I'll always be yours, Monty. And I'm pretty sure, that you're mine too."

Smithers' lips were on his before Burns even had time to protest. Burns relented, and gave way to the feelings at his breast. All too soon though, Smithers broke off the embrace. The younger man leaned back, and strode over to the window, hands clasped behind his back.

Burns clutched the narrow perch of his armrest, and hoped Smithers didn't see the faint desperation in his eyes. All these years he'd toyed with Smithers, like a cat plays with a still-live mouse before deciding whether to deliver a killing blow, or let the poor creature flee.

Well, Burns thought as he stood up and straightened his tie, he'd missed that opportunity to strike Smithers down. Missed it in spades.

Or perhaps, a little nagging voice piped up, you had the chance and ultimately refused take it.

Burns walked over to the water cooler and poured himself a drink. _I could've taken him down if I wanted to_ , Burns argued to himself as he made his way back to his desk.

Exactly, agreed the voice. But you didn't. Instead you built him up. And, admit it Monty, you like it.

Burns chuckled, and glanced up at Smithers _. I do enjoy a mental scrimmage with him. It is far more fun to fight with a peer than an underling. Nice to see he can actually hold his own in a battle of wills_.

You're seeing him as an equal. The voice pointed out, as if vindicated his own thoughts. You built him up, and now he's seeing it himself. Don't you think there's a parallel here?

Burns sidled up to Smithers and stared out the window. Snow was beginning to fall. _What similitude could possibly exist?_

Do you think the old Waylon Junior would've stood a chance at elevating someone if he hadn't risen to the occasion himself?

"Eh?" Burns asked aloud. Smithers glanced over at him and raised an eyebrow. Burns ignored it.

You built him up. He's trying to do the same for someone else now, the voice remarked.

The little voice took on a grandiose tone, continued relentlessly. That's 'legacy' for you, Monty. More than your name, more than your company. What he does, it's because of you. You started this. Now you're getting to see the true measure of your effect on the world. Young Waylon Smithers, Preston Tucci, perhaps even your own son Larry. This is the true value of your patrimony: do you not feel some measure of pride?

Burns eyed Smithers discretely. "I do," he muttered. "Every time I look at him."

Smithers turned, and raised an eyebrow.

"You're talking to yourself again, sir."

Burns waved a hand. "Balderdash, Smithers. I've done no such thing. Don't you have something important to do?"

Smithers shrugged, almost sarcastically. "I'm sure I can find one or two projects lying around."

"Well, by all means, hop to it man. Time is money, and once it's gone it's lost forever."

Smithers nodded agreeably. "I understand, sir." He laid his hand gently on his boss's shoulder, then turned and headed to his office. Burns' shoulder felt a residual heat from Smithers' all too brief touch. He watched his employee… no, his _partner_ leave, and smiled quietly to himself. Legacy indeed.


	7. Chapter 7

Preston Tucci had given a great deal of thought about what Smithers had said. Finally, he decided to take a walk through engineering. It wasn't the first time he'd been down there, far from it. Ordinarily his self-guided tours focused on the people and outputs. Today, he decided, he'd see if any ideas came to him. There were several months before he'd even have to contemplate what to do about the spent fuel assemblies, but perhaps a stroll would get his mind going.

Rigel, noticing him about to leave, made to follow.

"No," Preston said, holding up a hand. "You can stay here. Please take messages for any incoming calls, and I'll get back to them."

Rigel nodded. "Yes, Mister Tucci." She sat down, and returned to her work.

Preston walked, hands clasped behind his back, head down. He was utterly lost in thought. The spent fuel assemblies seemed the least of his worries at the moment. He needed to figure out how he could get the Board to see him as more than a space-holder CEO. Preston wracked his brain, struggling to come up with ideas. Perhaps he was thinking too big. Maybe there was something he could do at the plant level, maybe even the employee level. Some initiative program that would help.

Preston took the stairs down to the lower levels of the plant. Distracted by his thoughts, Preston barely noticed his surroundings. He rounded a corner and almost collided with Antoine who came barreling down the hall at a near sprint.

"Whoa, hey, sorry Prep," Antoine apologized, pivoting and narrowly avoiding his boss.

"Antoine, stop." Preston held up a hand. "Where are you off to in such a rush?"

Antoine shifted his weight anxiously from one foot to the other, a schematic one hand, and what appeared to be a giant pipe wrench in the other. He spoke rapidly, barely pausing for breath. "Gary and Francis shut down Hydro One so Sharon could get her crew in there for a routine swap-out. Then they found Stewart brought the wrong wrench size, so they called down to the shop and told me to bring the metric one. So, yeah, I really wanna chat, but I have to go, okay?"

Preston waved his hand. "Fine, Antoine; fine."

"Thanks, Prep. See you tonight!" Antoine jogged off down the hall, turned another corner, and disappeared. Antoine at least seemed gainfully employed.

Preston made his way down to the observation window above the cooling pond, and leaned on the frame. Below the long bay was illuminated by several halogen work lights, and the blue glow of the rod assemblies themselves. It was rather beautiful, if one didn't think about what they were looking at: several dozen tons of radioactive material sleeping in chilled water. From up here, it looked innocent, almost harmless; a safe number of basket assemblies. There was plenty of space. Re-racking was an option. Preston tapped his fingers on the window frame thoughtfully. _How would Dimas have handled this?_ he asked himself.

He already knew the answer. Dimas would go and make whatever deal he needed to.

One of their last trips to Albany had ended with a heated argument between his former boss and a small covey of legislators over the nature of an on-site dry storage facility at Plateau City plant. Preston wondered now if that had ever been Dimas' plan, or if the above-ground storage casks would've just stood empty: a clever and expensive ruse.

Preston figured he'd never know now.

He glanced at his watch. He'd been gone long enough. If Rigel was anything like he had been when he was an assistant, she was probably getting anxious by now. Preston turned, having reached no definitive conclusion, and made his way back to his office.

Preston took a detour on his way back to his office, swinging through the employee lockers. He glanced at the OSHA bulletin board, eyes flicking over the required postings about workplace safety and antidiscrimination laws. He hadn't been down here since returning as CEO. He flipped through the pages, seeing but not really reading the content. A few of his team passed through, looking nervously at him. He could practically read their thoughts: _what's the boss doing down here? Is he posting something new?_ His presence worried them. He couldn't help but notice no one stopped to say "hi."

Feeling oddly lonely for a man who typically enjoyed solitude, Preston took the back staircase up to the Administration and the executive department. It would take him pass Rhonda's office, but he didn't care. What could possibly happen today, he reasoned. After that little chat with Smithers, the rest of the morning would be comparatively normal, he figured.

He rounded the corner by Rhonda's fishbowl, down towards his own office, when a grating voice interrupted his quiet thoughts. "Mister Tucci, do you have a moment, please?"

Rhonda.

Preston groaned inwardly. He did not want to deal with whatever she had. He also knew there was no choice.

He turned. Rhonda, square and grey as always was standing at her door. He turned, trying to look as pleasant but patronizing. _Time to wear your rank on your sleeve_ , he told himself, thinking of the cube farm around him. "Vice President LeBlanc, I think I can spare a minute."

She smiled without a hint of warm. "I do appreciate it, sir." She gestured to her office, and followed him in. Rhonda closed the door behind them and moved to her desk. She gestured to a large stapled manual at the center. "I thought, _sir_ , you might want to take a refresher read through the company policy and procedures manual. I'm sure you're aware of the contents, but as Chief Executive you'll naturally understand the importance of making sure _all_ employees follow company regulations." Her expression was positively feral. She slid the manual over to him.

Preston took it, noting a memo-tab peeked out from between the pages in one section. He flicked his eyes Rhoda and raised an eyebrow.

Rhonda still hadn't sat down. Neither had he. He could often forget that she was not a tall woman. Her head barely came up to the middle of his chest. Her personality made up for her stature, the way she could walk into a space and subdue it. Preston felt a twinge of anger; the first he'd really even felt since The Incident. It felt good to feel mad. He flipped the manual over and opened to the tabbed section.

The arrow tab pointed to a specific paragraph.

" _To avoid the dangers of management fraternization with a subordinate employee, and to help prevent even the appearance of improper conduct, favoritism, improper use of authority or sexual harassment, it is the policy of the Plateau City Nuclear Generating Station that managers, supervisors or any other employee who has the authority to directly or indirectly affect the terms and conditions of another's employment shall not fraternize with that employee within or outside company property or work-related functions; nor shall any employee maintain such a relationship with any employee of a Plateau City Nuclear Generating Station client."_

Preston's eyes narrowed. He shut the manual and glared at Rhonda.

"And what does this have to do with me," he asked levelly.

"So glad you asked, Mister Tucci." Rhonda reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a small remote control. She aimed it at the windows behind her. Silently, blinds unrolled from concealed housing. They lowered, blocking out the sunlight as they went. Rhonda aimed the remote at the ceiling, and dimmed the bulbs. The only light now came from the computer monitors on her desk, and the glass front wall of her office.

Rhonda gestured the monitors. "If you'd be so kind…"

Preston's brow furrowed in annoyance and confusion. He walked around and stood behind her desk next to her. He could smell the faint scent of cigarette smoke in her hair. A stale, sour odor. He wrinkled his nose.

Rhonda LeBlanc tapped the screen on one of the monitors, opening a viewer. Preston quickly realized it was a live feed to the security cameras around the plant. She swiped through several pages, then selected one: a feed from the corridor where he and Antoine had nearly collided.

Preston felt his chest tighten.

Rhonda deftly grabbed the mouse and entered a specific time. The tiny window went blank for a second while the recorded image was loaded, then snapped to life. Rhonda tapped "pause," maximized the window until it filled the frame, and hit "enable audio."

She scrolled forward at double speed. The image of Preston scurried down the corridor, almost crashing into a blue haired streak. There was some squeaking: their conversation in fast-forward. Rhonda hit "play" and the scene slowed.

Antoine was explaining. "I really wanna chat, but I have to go, okay?"

"Fine, Antoine; fine."

"Thanks, Prep. See you tonight!"

Preston stiffened involuntarily.

Rhonda smirked, and paused the video. "Did you see that?" she asked, smugly. "Let's watch it again."

The video looped through. Antoine's voice, tinny through her monitor speakers: _Thanks, Prep. See you tonight. Thanks, Prep. See you tonight._ She lowered the volume to a barely audible pitch, but left the scene looping.

"Care to explain that comment, Mister Tucci?"

Preston's mouth felt dry. He tried to think of the right words, and failed.

Rhonda pounced on his hesitation. "The National Labor Relations Board will easily hold up our anti-fraternization policy. Which clearly spells out that management is not to engage with non-management employees outside of work." She gestured to the manual in Preston's hands. "Thaddeus and I worried that overly familiar relationships between management and non-management could run contrary to good order and discipline in the company. I'm sure you know that. Even upper management is 'encouraged' not to engage lower management. So… what of the pilot's little remark then? Please," she made a beckoning gesture, "go on…"

Preston swallowed, the anger he'd felt moments before had gave way to a bitter sensation. Not fear, exactly. He wasn't even sure what it was. There was a heat to it. He tensed his shoulders. "I've known Antoine Radson for three years now, met him shortly after I began working here. As Mister Dimas' personal assistant, I was often in frequent contact with him, coordinating Mister Dimas' trips."

Preston felt a small ember begin to glow in his chest. It fueled his words, gave them heat. "When I was done with work, I would often join him and our fellow coworkers for dinner and drinks. Then we would part ways at the end of the evening."

"That's all? Rhonda asked, tilting her head.

"That's _all_ ," Preston replied, the anger returning. "And, quite honestly Rhonda, I don't see how that's relevant."

She stopped the video.

"Well, you see, you're clearly management now. We can't have you hanging out with non-management. It could be perceived as favoritism, or inappropriate. Tell me, were you planning on a social meeting with Radson outside of work tonight?"

Preston was quick to react defensively. "My friendship with my fellow employees predates my position as CEO," he replied sharply. "As I recall, by law if a relationship is pre-existing before establishment of positional authority, it cannot be considered fraternization."

Rhonda brightened the lights and raised the blinds. "I see. Well, that would have to be a matter for Human Resources to decide; if ever it came to that of course. I trust it won't?"

Preston drew himself up to his full height. "What I trust, _Rhonda_ , is that you will do your job for this company. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a business to run." Preston stormed out of her office. He didn't wait for a reply.

* * *

Preston left work a bit earlier than usual, after sending Antoine a text to wait for him. Evening had settled, and it was cold, but not in the way that promised snow. There was an aching dampness to the air. Preston could smell it as he neared the door. He drew his scarf about his neck and sighed. Antoine was already there, leaning against the wall and watching their coworkers trickle out.

Antoine smiled when he saw Preston, eyes lighting up.

Preston couldn't help but smile in return, despite the fatigue he felt. It was nice to see a friendly face.

"Hey, boss," chipped Antoine. He held the door for Preston and followed his boss outside. "Ugh," Antoine muttered, pulling a wool cap out of his pocket and cramming it over his head. "Rain. Why is it always rain? Should be snow."

Preston turned his collar up and tucked his hands into the pockets of his wool overcoat. "Long December," he muttered. He headed across the parking lot to the bus station, Antoine loping along at his side.

"Well now that song's going to be in my head all night," Antoine muttered as they packed into the sheltered bus stop. Antoine glanced at Preston, his mood a bit more subdued that usual. "The feeling that it's all a lot of oysters, but no pearls, eh?"

Preston resisted the urge to pat Antoine on the shoulder. "You have no idea, my friend. None whatsoever."

Antoine shrugged. He watched the rain roll down the sides of the plexiglass shelter.

Preston noticed Antoine was humming quietly to himself, swinging his head gently to some melody only he could hear.

Up ahead their bus was coming, tires hissing against the wet pavement. With a growl and a squeal, came to a stop. The pistons hissed as the bus knelt down to the curb. Antoine, Preston, and several other employees climbed aboard. As usual, Preston and Antoine sat next to each other.

Antoine was still humming to himself. He stared out the window, the water streaking across the window as the bus gathered speed in the darkness. Rhythmically, the streetlights passed overhead, illuminating their seats at regular intervals. Antoine closed his eyes and leaned his head back. He looked oddly at peace in his beat up canvas jacket and military watchcap; blue hair peeking out from the edges.

"And it's one more day up in the canyon," Antoine sang softly. "And it's one more night in Hollywood. And it's been so long since I've seen the ocean… guess I should." He hummed the chords quietly.

In that moment, Preston truly envied his friend. Antoine's ability to block out the everyday distractions, and find his own tiny moments of peace. _You have no idea how lucky you are_ , Preston thought as he let his eyes trace over the contours of Antoine's face. _I'd give anything to be you right now_.


	8. Chapter 8

Their route was fairly direct, the bus making only a handful of stops before they were at their own. Preston stood up, giving Antoine a tap in case his friend had fallen asleep. Antoine opened his soft eyes, and regarded Preston with a look that seemed to peer into his soul. Antoine could do that sometimes, Preston thought as they climbed down the steps. He had a way of looking _into_ people, not just at them. Antoine could read people. He had a knack for it.

The two men made their way through the wet darkness down Antoine's street. Antoine's house, their house, backed up to a preserve. Though they had neighbors on their side, the back yard met with nothing but pine barrens. Their yard was framed by a decently high hedge, giving them a sense of privacy. Antoine's house was easy to identify in the dark: it was the one with the least number of lights on.

The rain was rolling down Preston's neck, in spite of his collar and scarf. He shivered, and was more than grateful when they finally stood under the front porch. Antoine fussed with his keys for a moment before finally grabbing the right one, and letting them in.

Preston shivered as he hung his coat in the closet by the door.

"I'm getting tired of public transportation," he remarked wearily.

Antoine cocked his head as he tossed his coat over the back of a chair. "So start taking Bessie."

Preston made a face. "I'm thinking I need to bite the bullet and get my own car." He grabbed Antoine's coat off the chair. "Would it kill you to use the closet for once?"

Antoine shrugged. "It might."

"It won't."

"Okay."

Preston left his shoes by the door to dry, and walked down the hall to his bedroom. "I've been thinking," he called out to Antoine as he changed. In the recent weeks, Preston had become less shy about leaving the door open. He knew Antoine would respect his privacy.

"What about?" asked Antoine as he changed in the master bedroom.

"Several things," replied Preston as he slipped into his pair of navy sweat pants, and a matching navy sweatshirt. He joined Antoine in the living room and sat down in his favorite recliner.

Antoine appeared, wearing a grey v-neck tee-shirt, and a pair of plaid pajama pants. He flopped down on the couch. He must've noticed Preston's eyes on him. He glanced over, looking mildly self-conscious. Unusual for Antoine. "What?" he asked, perplexed.

Preston drew his feet up, and curled his legs under himself. "I'm surprised you're not wearing one of your button-down shirts tonight."

Antoine looked his grey shirt thoughtfully. "Eh," he replied with a shrug. "Whatever." He kicked his feet onto the ottoman and faced Preston. "So, what's on your mind, Prep?"

Preston settled deeper into the chair. "Well, three things really. One: I am going to buy a car. I'm tired of walking to the bus stop every day. Two: I officially have a personal assistant now. And three: Rhonda hates me."

"I don't think Rowdy hates you," Antoine began thoughtfully. "She's not that bad…"

"Let me tell you about my day with her," replied Preston emphatically. He leaned back in his chair and described everything from his encounter with Rhonda earlier that day. He told Antoine how she'd been watching him on the monitors, and played back the recorded footage of him and Antoine. Preston found, once he started talking about this matter, he couldn't seem to stop. Soon everything was flowing out: Rhonda choosing his personal assistant for him, Rhonda threatening him about fraternization… the more he talked, the faster he spoke. It was like an avalanche. Preston couldn't have stopped his words if he wanted to.

Antoine sat, face stoic as he listened intently.

Finally, Preston paused, taking a deep breath. "She can't do that, can she?"

Antoine stood up, his expression stormy. "She can, but she has no right to," he rumbled, slapping his hands on his thighs.

Preston leaned back in his chair. Antoine might occasionally get annoyed, but this was the first time he'd ever seen Antoine look downright mad. Antoine paced the length and breadth of their living room, keeping his weight lightly on the balls of his bare feet. He swung his arms and clapped his hands together as he moved. His whole body moved with the easy grace of a wild animal. He paused in front of Preston, rubbing his hands together and swaying like a cobra. "I…" he started. "She'd better…" He turned suddenly, putting his back to Preston and digging his hands into his thick blue hair. He made a growling sound then whirled back, fingers still knotted into his mane. "I'm speechless, Preston. I literally don't even know what to say."

Antoine paused for a moment, then bolted into his room.

Preston heard the familiar sound of Antoine pawing through his files: the drawers rolling in and out, papers being tossed in piles. Moments later, Antoine emerged, a copy of the nuclear plant's employee manual in his hand. "Lemme see what she's talking about." He dropped onto the couch and began leafing through the pages. "This means what? You're not supposed to hang out with anyone who isn't management?"

Antoine found the page and slowly read it.

Preston couldn't help but notice how Antoine moved his lips when he read. It seemed he was always noticing little details like that about his housemate. Preston dropped his chin in his hand, and watched Antoine read.

"You know what she's trying to do, don't you?" Antoine finally asked, looking up.

"Make my life a living hell?" Preston replied dryly.

Antoine tossed the manual on the far side of the couch. He gave Preston an incredulous look. "No. Not at all! You honestly don't see it, do you."

"See what?"

Antoine ran a hand through his hair. "Really? This is classic psych warfare. She's trying to isolate you from your friends, your support group. She's trying to break you, Preston."

Preston hunched his back and tucked his hands into his sleeves. "Thanks, Antoine. That makes me feel so much better." His tone came out more bitter than he'd intended, and Antoine glared at him. Preston found himself wishing he hadn't been so sarcastic. Antoine's reproachful look was far worse than anything he'd received from Rhonda. He held out his hands. "Antoine, I'm sorry. It's just, how do you know that's what she's trying to do?"

"Easy," Antoine scoffed. "You think this is the first time I've seen someone pull this stunt? I've been around. She's going to try and nail you for hanging out with me at work. I kinda suspected someone might. Why do you think I sent _myself_ to Infrastructure? You think I'm going to have you hauled up because you're caught spending too much time with me?" Antoine snorted. "Aww, hell no, Preppy! You're my best friend. I'm gonna try and protect you from things you don't even see coming."

Antoine paused, and glanced at the manual. "I didn't see this coming though. I mean, I didn't think she'd be the one to step it to this level so quickly." He drummed his bare feet on the floor.

Preston took a deep breath, held it for a minute, then exhaled slowly. "What do you think I should do?" he finally asked.

Antoine scowled. "Well, who do you hang out with?"

Preston hung his head. "I don't."

"Preppy," Antoine cooed gently. "Come on, stay with me. Who is your little social group around the plant? I mean, remember when we all used to go to The Lucky Lady after work?" Antoine pointed out.

Preston managed a weak smile. It had been months since he'd felt the ambition to hang out with the small group he once knew. Every day seemed long, he felt so tired. Still, there was a fondness to the memories. "Well, there was you (of course), Gary, Sharon, Ruby from accounting…"

Antoine smiled. "Yep. And technically, two out of the three you listed are management. I mean, not executive management, but Sharon's a division manager. So is Gary. He's chief of engineering. They're leads." Antoine pointed to the manual. "Technically, there is no division between management tiers in this thing. At least none that I saw. You see anything different?"

Preston reached out a hand. "May I?" He flinched as Antoine tossed the manual over. It landed in his lap. "You could've passed it," Preston admitted.

Antoine blushed slightly. "Sorry."

Preston ignored him and flipped the section on employee conduct. Though an earlier version than the one Rhonda had given him that morning, the contents were exactly the same. He felt a glimmer of hope. "It's not so bad," he muttered.

Antoine tilted his head. "No, it's still _bad_ Preppy. It's just not hopeless." Antoine made a grabbing motion, and Preston handed the manual back. "You can beat Rowdy. Don't try to go tete-a-tete with her though. Gotta be smart about this." Antoine tapped his head. "Beat her at her own game, you know?"

Preston's feet were falling asleep. He shifted positions, then retucked his legs. "How," he finally asked.

Antoine shrugged. "Hire the best damned avocados in New York."

Preston shook his head. "What?"

"Never mind. Netflix reference. But you're smart. You'll think of something. So, let's move on to two. Tell me about this personal assistant."

Preston leaned back and began. "Her name's Rigel-"

"-For real? That's awesome!"

Preston ignored Antoine's interruption and continued. He told Antoine as much as he knew about his new assistant from their little interview. He also included a few details from her personal file that he'd pulled from Human Resources. "I was a bit surprised in Rhonda's choice, but she seems like a good kid. She reminds me of myself a little," Preston admitted with a shrug.

Antoine held up a hand. "Whoa, wait a minute there. Repeat that."

"She reminds me of myself?" Preston asked.

The withering look Antoine gave him in response made him blanche.

"What?" Preston asked, holding up his palms. "What did I say?"

Antoine gave him a shifty look. "That part where you said Rhonda chose her." Antoine ran a hand over his face and beard. "Gods, Preston. What am I going to do with you?"

A thousand ideas ran through Preston's head. Some of them were better than others. One in particular stood out. Preston quickly dismissed that thought from his mind. Antoine would never go for that. _Love me. Meet my parents. Be with me._ Preston mentally pinched himself. How could he even be thinking about things like that right now? He took off his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. He cursed himself inwardly.

"Rigel's not a spy," he muttered. He hoped his tone sounded persuasive enough to convince Antoine and himself both. It did not. His words sounded flat, even to his own ears.

Antoine folded his arms across his chest and sulked. "I take back what I said. Her name's not awesome."

"Let it go, Antoine," Preston pleaded. "She might not even have anything to do with Rhonda. You can't go making assumptions like that." He looked up, not bothering to put on his glasses. "Isn't that what you'd tell me, if our situations were reversed: 'give her the benefit of the doubt.'"

Preston's blue-haired housemate continued to pout. He looked away and stared down the hall.

"Antoine…" Preston coaxed.

Antoine muttered something under his breath, but refused to meet Preston's eyes.

"What was that?" Preston knew he was needling Antoine a bit. He didn't care. Preston didn't feel like skirting the issue tonight.

"I said 'yeah, that is what I'd say.' There. You happy?"

"Actually, yes."

Antoine grunted and rolled his eyes.

Preston leaned forward and put his glasses on. The world came into focus once again. "I'm going to go heat up some soup. Do you want anything?"

Antoine raised his head.

Food. Preston knew Antoine's rare moments of agitation could always be soothed with a good meal. "Probably tomato," Preston replied. "And maybe a grilled cheese sandwich or two." Preston smiled. "Do you want one?"

Antoine nodded eagerly. "With bacon? And basil too?"

Preston patted Antoine's shoulder as he walked by. "I suppose for you, we can do that."

The expression on Antoine's face was one of utter adoration. "You know the way to my heart, Preppy," he remarked from the living room. Preston didn't turn around, lest his own expression betray him.

 _You know the way to mine too, Antoine_ , he thought silently as he set a skillet on the stove top. Preston afforded himself a private moment. This was not what he'd pictured when he used to envision his future. He'd always figured he'd be some high-profile executive ruling over a company with a gilded fist: the epitome of class and style. And power. He'd have a huge house, a fancy car, and a significant other who fit solidly into the "trophy" category.

Some of that had come true, he reasoned; but not like he planned. He was a largely invisible CEO worrying over every little detail. He lived in a simple ranch-style house with a hipster pilot. He didn't even have a car. And the closest thing he had to any "trophy" relationship was whatever he had with Antoine. Preston wasn't even sure what to call it. Friendship, he supposed. Intimate, domestic, wonderful in its own odd way.

Antoine roundly described himself as Preston's "hetero-lifemate."

Preston wasn't even sure what that meant.

He flipped the bread, and added a tiny bit of olive oil to the pan.

What did he have with Antoine anyhow? Preston never really thought about it much, but sometimes he wondered. If they continued along this avenue, sooner or later the question would come up. Maybe not among his friends, not that Preston had many to chat with anyhow, but eventually he'd have to speak with his parents again. It was inevitable that Antoine would be part of the conversation. Preston added cheese to the bread, and stirred the soup. Maybe it would be best, he reasoned, that he just bring Antoine along next time he and his parents made plans to cross paths... Assuming no one cancelled. That way, he could just get everything done, get it out into the open. Whether they erroneously decided he and Antoine were _boyfriends_ , or whether they went into complete denial mode, at least it would be over quickly.

The topic of "gay" had never come up in his family. _You're a late bloomer_ , his parents would say when young Preston failed to show interest in puppy love dating and girls. _Don't worry about it_. Preston hadn't bothered to tell them he didn't think it was a 'late bloomer' thing. The word "gay" was never mentioned, even in political discussions. Nor were any derogatory slurs for that matter. It was if the entire concept of anything other than "straight" didn't exist in his parents' eyes. You were straight, or you weren't discussed.

It was that simple.

 _Probably denial_ , Preston concluded, setting the sandwiches on their plates. Considering what some kids went through with their parents, denial probably wasn't so bad. Preston balanced the soup bowls and sandwich plates on a tray, and carried them out to the living room. He carefully set everything on Antoine's footstool, and sat down on the couch.

Drinks. He'd forgotten to ask if Antoine wanted a drink. He wasn't thirsty at the moment. He'd ask in a bit. There was a bigger question on his mind.

"Antoine," he began carefully. "How would you feel about meeting my parents?"

Antoine froze in mid-bite. He peered at Preston nervously over his sandwich, eyes wide, whites showing. "Mrgh frents?" he asked, mouth full.

Preston didn't need to ask for a translation. He nodded.

Antoine swallowed mightily and licked his lips. "Jeeze, I dunno. Okay, I guess." He shrugged nervously. "Bigger question is: how would they feel about meeting me, you know?"

Preston made a _who knows?_ gesture.

"Why, are you… are we… going to see them or something?"

Preston shook his head. He took a bite of his sandwich, chewed thoughtfully, then swallowed. "No. No. It's just something that I wonder about sometimes. If you're my hetero-lifemate and all, sooner or later, it will come up."

Antoine dipped his sandwich in his soup. "Yeah. Parents. I dunno." Antoine paused, and gave a wry smirk. "Is this payback for stressing you out about your assistant?"

Preston couldn't help but laugh. "No, no! Nothing like that. I was just wondering because, well, you're here, I'm here; neither of us is going anywhere, right?" Preston's eyes met Antoine's and he blushed furiously. Quickly, Preston looked away. "Sooner or later, it'll come up." Preston gently rested a hand on Antoine's leg. "I'm glad to have you as my friend. I guess proud might be a better word. I'd rather people know about you than not, if it ever came up. I consider us an 'us.' And I'm okay with that." Preston struggled with his words. This wasn't a topic he found easy to bring up; nor was it any easier to continue once he'd started.

Antoine regarded Preston's hand like he'd never seen it before. "Fair enough," he announced decisively. "So I'm yours, and your mine? Yeah. I'm okay with that too." Antoine smirked. "Even if this is some hella deep fraternization we got going on right now."

Preston laughed, and felt some of the day's stress slowly slide away. Maybe not all of it, but enough. He patted Antoine's thigh, then withdrew his hand. "Well then, if we're an 'us,' then I think it behooves me to mention I'm going to buy a new car."

"I was going to ask about that. You mentioned it earlier. So we're getting a new car, eh? Antoine grinned. "Land Rover?"

"No, a sedan. Cadillac," Preston held up a hand. "But regardless, let's be clear. It's my car. You already have a car."

"But I can still drive yours, right?"

Preston winked. "Maybe if you're good."

Antoine batted his eyes innocently. "Oh Preppy, I'm always good. And when I'm bad, I'm even better." He made a kissing motion and curled his body in a mock-flirtatious way.

Preston stood up, grabbing the tray with their empty dishes. "I know you're teasing, so I'll let that one go. But you'd better watch yourself, Antoine. I've got my eyes on you." Preston pointed to his eyes with his index and middle fingers, then back to Antoine.

Antoine kicked his feet up onto the ottoman and reached for the remote. "I wouldn't want 'em anywhere else, Prep." He sighed contentedly. "You just keep watching me, and I'll look out for you, and this'll all be fine. You'll see."

Preston put the dishes to wash, and returned to Antoine. He sat down on the couch, and leaned against Antoine's soft flank. "Just keep telling me that," Preston murmured, a note of seriousness creeping into his voice. He thought of his conversation with Smithers, the cooling rods, the finite amount of time he had to make a decision. He closed his eyes, and tried not to think of the past. "If I hear it enough, maybe I'll believe it."

Antoine threw his thick arm around Preston and pulled him close. "Don't worry, Prep. I'm here. Everything's going to be a-okay." He stroked Preston's hair with his free hand. "Don't you worry. I got this."


	9. Chapter 9

Rigel Vought was busy sorting out Preston's daily memos. It had been this way for the past month since she started. She made a point to arrive at least thirty minutes before her boss. It gave her time to go over anything that had come in after hours the night before, and get the coffee started. Decaf. She'd learned he didn't go for anything with caffeine. It was strange, she thought, but she didn't question it. He was the boss, if he only wanted decaffeinated coffee, that is what he would get.

She'd almost arranged everything when, without warning, the doors flew open. She looked up, startled, as a person she didn't know trotted into the office and helped himself to a cup of her boss's coffee. He wore a pair of heavy work boots, a pair of khaki colored pants, and a vibrant red polo shirt.

"Excuse me," Rigel barked, eyes hard. "Who are you, and what exactly are you doing here?"

The blue-haired man turned with an expression of false innocence. "Oh my," he gasped theatrically, clutching a hand to his chest. "I totally didn't see you there. Ah well, can't be helped." Coffee mug in hand, he capered around the desk and sat down in Preston's chair. The man put his feet on the desk, and smiled at her. It was a challenge if ever Rigel had seen one. She moved the row of papers away from the intruder's shoes and stared into his eyes.

"I don't know who you are, sir," she said firmly, "but Mister Tucci will be here any minute, so I am going to have to insist you leave, or I will call security."

The blue-haired man smirked and whipped out a cell phone in an industrial case. He tossed it onto the desk. "Go for it. Speed dial number four. Or do you want me to call them myself?"

Rigel bared her teeth, and tried to look as threatening as she could. She ignored the phone that had been so disrespectfully lobbed in her direction, and snatched the handset off Preston's desk. "I'm warning you," she growled, hand poised above the keypad.

"Do it. I dare you," the intruder replied smugly.

Rigel started to type in the extension when a well-manicured finger pushed the hook down, hanging up the line. Rigel recognized the hand, and the scent of her boss's cologne. "There's no need for that, Miss Vought," Preston's cool voice came from her right side.

Dutifully, she placed the handset back in the cradle.

"Antoine," Preston began as he slowly walked around his desk. "What are you doing here?"

 _Antoine_ , Rigel noted, putting a name to the face. It wasn't someone she'd have to worry about forgetting. His hair, beard, even eyebrows were a teal blue.

"Me?" Antoine replied. "Just stopping by to say hello. That's all." He smiled innocently.

Preston glanced from Antoine to Rigel, then back again. "Miss Vought, could you give us a moment please?" he asked. Rigel nodded. She made her way to her office, but didn't shut the door tight. She reached over and picked up her phone.

Antoine grinned ear to ear as he leaned back in Preston's chair. "Hey, it's been a while since I've sat here. Feels kinda good, eh?" He spun in a circle. "I could get used to this."

Preston was in no mood to play games. "Antoine, what the hell are you doing here?"

Antoine smirked and held up a hand. "Wait for it…" He glanced at his watch, got up and gestured to the chair. "She's all yours."

Preston sat down and wiped the top of his desk with a handkerchief. "Good, fine," he muttered. "Is this why you said you had to leave early today?"

Antoine sat down on the corner of Preston's desk. "It might be." He glanced at his watch again. "Three... two... one."

There was a knock on Preston's door. "Enter!" he bellowed, glaring at Antoine who still remained perched on his desk.

Rhonda LeBlanc swept in, grey and all five feet an imposing figure. She glared at Antoine, then at Preston. "Mister Tucci,"she began, eyes burning with a predatory triumph, "I was under the impression we had an understanding about appropriate relations. Overly familiar relations between management and non-management employees."

Preston stiffened. He glared at Antoine and wished for all the world that his housemate would show some common sense and leave. He tried as best he could to ignore Antoine, who was now playing with a stress relief ball he'd pulled out of some pocket or other.

"I don't know what you're getting at, Rhonda," he began slowly, "but I assure you there has been no breach of conduct between myself and any other employees."

Rhonda gave Preston a knowing smile, that was halfway a sneer. "What about 'Exhibit A' over there?" she asked, gesturing to Antoine.

"Shoot, Rowdy," Antoine replied. "I've been doing this since the Dimas era. I'm irreverent; and the Big D let me get away with it. I guess old habits die hard. Not the first time you've seen me here." He stroked his chin thoughtfully. "First time you've ever questioned it though."

Preston opened his mouth to say something, but Rhonda cut him off.

"Mister Tucci, I've noticed you registered a new vehicle with security. Where did you drive in from?"

Antoine snapped his fingers and pointed at Rhonda. "Aha," he crowed, grinning at Preston. "She can't ask you that." He raised his face to Rhonda LeBlanc. "You can't ask him that." He turned back to Preston. "You don't have to answer that, sir."

Rhonda's hands tightened into fists. "Mister Radson," she began, voice dripping with contempt, "I urge you to tread very carefully. You may be the company pilot, but you are not irreplaceable. I could fire you at a moment's notice, and I wouldn't feel bad about it."

Preston felt a rising sense of panic. Had Antoine completely lost his mind? He tensed his muscles, poising to inject himself between them if things got worse.

Antoine shrugged. "Go right ahead. You can fire me from being the company pilot, but that won't change anything." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small leather folio. "I'd still be here, and you'd still be paying me." He waved the folio back and forth as he spoke.

"That's impossible," Rhonda snarled.

"Actually, it's not. See, I own a share of the company helicopter. A small share, but a legal share nonetheless. For insurance reasons. It was something I had to do when I started working here." He balanced the folio upright in his palm. "I'm not just a pilot, I'm a certified flight instructor." He gestured to Preston. "Mister Tucci is a student of mine."

Rhonda turned her attention to Preston, the full squat force of her wrath. "So you have been socializing with non-management employees outside of work!"

Antoine waved a finger. "Technically, he's participating in a group out of work. It is completely illegal for an employer either as an individual or representing a corporation, to enquire about an employee's outside-of-work participations." Antoine glanced over at Preston. "You don't have to answer that either, _sir_. However, Rowdy, if you must know, Mister Tucci has logged hours with me since his return as interim CEO last season. This predates his official status as Chief Executive of the plant. Ergo, since he was not management at the time he became my student, the dynamic is not 'fraternization,' and violates no policy."

Rhonda snorted. "I could still fire you in a heartbeat."

"You could, but I'd still be here, and the plant would still be paying me."

"How on earth do you figure that, Radson."

Antoine hopped off Preston's desk. "Easy, actually. The chopper's part mine, and there's a budget allocated to the expenses of incurred as a results of owning and utilizing the chopper. We've been happily in the black for months now, as Mister Tucci does not make the many trips that Mister Dimas frequently went on." Antoine smiled charmingly. "The bylaws governing the use of that budget do not specifically allocate categories of use: which are fuel, maintenance, repairs, and so on. Ergo, there is nothing at all preventing Mister Tucci from using the budget to pay for instruction in flying the company helicopter."

Preston watched, mute as Antoine toyed with the folio in his hands. "It's all here, every last detail, in black and white. If you want to see…"

Rhonda's lips were drawn back, exposing her teeth. Preston couldn't help but notice they were rather stained from years of tobacco and coffee. "I have copies of your paperwork, your budget, your license," she hissed. "I don't need that from you."

"Well, fair enough." Antoine slipped the folio back in his pocket. "I guess there's nothing more to say here. Hey, thanks for stopping by thought, Rhonda. Always a pleasure to see your smiling face."

Rhonda looked completely buffaloed. She paused, froze as if dazed, then started to turn towards the door.

"Oh, hey, Rhonda!" Antoine added.

Rhonda regarded Antoine, expression utterly bemused.

"You really gotta be careful who you accuse of what. Because someone might turn around and file a complaint back at you. Not me. I mean, we're pals. We've known each other, what a decade or something? I dunno. I've lost track. I know you don't mean any harm. But we've got new employees on board like Miss Rigel, and not everyone understands that things aren't what they seem."

She started to speak, but Antoine cut her off. "There's nothing illegal going on, but all it takes is the wrong questions, the wrong thing and then _bam!_ We've got OSHA crawling all over the place on some witch hunt for something that doesn't even exist. Because there is no problem here. Then it'll get HR tearing their hair out, and by the time everything gets settled it's cost us a ton in man hours, wages, and incident reports all to document that there was nothing in the first place. So, yeah. I think it's best we just let this go. We got this, right ma'am?"

Rhonda nodded dumbly. She turned on her heel, eyes glazed, and headed out of Preston's office, shutting the door behind her.

Antoine tossed the stress relief ball to Preston. "Here, you need this more than I do."

Preston caught it, wonderingly.

"Uhm, Antoine, what just happened?"

"Rowdy and I negotiated!"

Preston shook his head. "That's not what I saw happening."

Antoine paused, hand on the knob. "Oh really? What did you see, sir?"

Preston held his hands wide, palms up. "I saw the most fabulous display of blinding with brilliance, or baffling with bullshit that I've ever witnessed. I'm honestly not sure which."

Antoine gave a pensive shrug, expression distant. "Street kid, remember? I don't have time for bullshit." With that, he let himself, and was gone.

* * *

Antoine glanced at the sticky note pad in his pocket. It was a good thing Rhonda didn't recognize his hand-writing. Equally good that her schedule was as precise as a Swiss watch. At seven forty-five, she always closed the front blinds to her fishbowl, and went out for a cigarette on the balcony. In that time her office was obscured from the main hallway, Antoine slid a note under her door.

It was a simple note. Nothing elaborate, but he knew it would be enough to get her going.

"The pilot's hanging out in Tucci's office."

Antoine chuckled to himself. Rhonda was good. He was better. _Let the seventy-sixth hunger games begin_ , he thought smugly.


	10. Chapter 10

Rigel handed a stack of papers over to Preston. "Here are the lists you requested for the upcoming Christmas Ball," she announced.

Preston leafed through them, and nodded approvingly. "Thank you, Miss Vought," he acknowledged. He sipped his tea. Every year in December, the Plateau City Rotary Club hosted quite the fancy charity ball and silent auction. Each year they funded a different main cause, but it was always comprised of two programs: one at the city level, and something global. The Plateau City Nuclear Generating Station always made a sizeable donation. Thaddeus Dimas would give some speech about the importance of whatever the focus of the charities were that year, and present them with one of those overlarge novelty checks. The real one was always hand delivered subtly, out of sight.

It was a formal affair, and perhaps the biggest social event of the year. Red carpets and white ties. Fancy little hors d'oeuvres and expensive champagne. Everyone who was anyone would be there. Preston had been twice already, following at the heel of Thaddeus and Evita Dimas. It was one of the few times Dimas had paid attention to his wife. They made the perfect "public" couple, walking arm in arm, and chatting in that pleasant but vague way that high society had.

Preston knew those gatherings, and the art of conversation. His parents had made sure he understood how to conduct himself. What had happened in Albany? Well, that had been a mistake and a gross underestimate when it came to the strength of a Long Island iced tea. It was one of those moments Preston wished he could forget. If Smithers hadn't joined him in that little karaoke duet, people would still probably be talking about it, Preston reasoned.

In many ways, Preston envied Smithers, and even Antoine. Those two, while so different, always seemed to have the situation under control. Smithers by his businesslike tenacity, and Antoine with his jocular smooth talking. _And where does that leave me?_ Preston wondered as he reviewed the morning reports. He was sure he didn't know.

Preston had been secretly dreading the ball. Public speaking had never been one of his favorite things. Sure, the topic had been covered in excess during his academic years, but given the choice Preston preferred other people take the stage.

Rather preoccupied, Preston chewed through his morning projects. He had a meeting with a representative for their company health insurance. Open enrollment was still two quarters away, but Preston needed to negotiate rates. The prospective outlook put an increase in the expense employees would pay to keep coverage. A significant increase. Preston knew that wouldn't go over well. Even though insurance was deducted directly from the employees' paychecks, he knew no one would be happy to learn they would soon be taking home less money. There's got to be a way to keep rates reasonable, Preston thought in frustration. He drummed his fingers on the desk anxiously.

There were two issues he'd have to resolve soon: the charity ball, and health insurance. Three, technically. The spent fuel rods. He'd been dragging his feet on the last one.

Preston snagged a sheet of paper from his drawer. He wished Antoine were around. It was always easier to have someone to bounce ideas off of. After a moment, he relented, and called Sharon's work phone.

As usual, she answered by the third ring. "Sharon speaking," she announced.

"Sharon, it's Pres- Mister Tucci. When Antoine's available, send him to my office right away." Lord, he'd almost referred to himself as Preston. It was such a hard habit to break, especially with the few people he knew. Admittedly, Sharon probably didn't care whether he was "Preston" or "Mister Tucci" to her, but there was a certain level of professionalism he had to maintain.

"He and Laney are finishing up a joint project. He'll be up within a half hour."

"Thank you, Sharon," he said as regally as he could muster.

"No problem, sir."

Preston hung up. He glanced towards Rigel's office. "Miss Vought," he called.

Rigel appeared and hastily made her way to his desk. "Sir?" She pulled out her notepad and waited for instructions.

"Please make sure I have a good hour of uninterrupted time in thirty minutes. Also, please make yourself available for that time. I need to pick the brains of my two trusted advisors."

Rigel blinked twice. For her, that was an expression of extreme surprise. "Sir?" she asked. "With all due respect, sir, advise is not my role."

Preston rubbed his palms together. "If you're going to be part of my inner team, Miss Vought, you must be willing to give me your opinion when I ask for it." _And if you're working for Rhonda, I need to make sure I include you so I know what you're doing_ , he added in his head.

Rigel blinked again. The young woman had a veritable poker face.

"Please, sit," Preston asked, gesturing to one of the guest chairs in front of his desk.

Obediently, Rigel sat, awaiting further instruction.

"When I was in your position, Rigel, my boss Thaddeus Dimas used to periodically pick my brain." It was a lie, of course. Dimas had never asked Preston what he thought about anything; but Rigel didn't have to know that. "In watching him, I learned it's wise to listen to the thoughts of those who work around me. Do you understand?"

Rigel gave a subtle nod. "Sir, you think it's important because I might catch something you'd miss."

Preston smiled. "Exactly." He leaned back and tried to appear comfortably in charge. It was hard for him to talk about Dimas, harder still in the dead man's office, sitting in a dead man's chair. Preston let his eyes go to the wave cresting in subtle rainbow shades. _Evetide Breaks_. He studied the still water for a moment. "Thaddeus Dimas kept the counsel of two people: myself, and Antoine Radson. I believe you've met him?"

"The pilot with the blue hair?"

Preston nodded. "Antoine served as my personal assistant briefly when I came on board as CEO. He's a man of many hats, though his ultimate skills lie in flying, maintenance, and reading people." Preston smiled at Rigel. "As such, I appreciate his input."

Now that he'd spoken well of Antoine, it was time to try flattering Rigel, and hope she believed it. Preston wasn't going to lie, she was exceedingly thorough in her job.

"You, Rigel, you have keen eye for detail. You coordinate timetables that would make would make a Swiss conductor envious. To the second, you have everything planned out. I needn't go into your clerical skills. Those are without reproach." He took a sip of his tea. "You're going to be at my side for most of your time here. One might accuse me of being foolish if I didn't ask for your input now and then."

Antoine's familiar knock came from the double doors to Preston's office. The quick _rap-rap-rap_ from the back of his knuckles. Rather than hold his hand like a fist and use it to knock, Antoine held his hand so the back of it faced the door. He'd flick the back of his hand against the door so the knuckles struck light and fast. It made a distinctive sound. Distinctly Antoine.

"Antoine," Preston called out, "Come in."

Antoine opened the door partially and slid in, closing it softly behind him. "How'd you know it was me?" he asked, glancing over at Rigel.

Rigel's face asked the same question.

Preston smirked. "Knowing who's at my door is part of my job. Please, have a seat."

Antoine dropped into the second guest chair. Though his eyes were on Preston, occasionally he'd cast a sidelong glance at Rigel.

 _And here goes nothing_ , thought Preston. He took a breath, held it for a second, then dove in.

"I don't believe you have formally been introduced. Miss Vought, I'd like you to meet the company pilot, _my_ pilot, Antoine Radson. Antoine, this is my executive assistant, Rigel Vought."

Rigel extended her hand. Preston noted Antoine hesitated a moment before taking it in his. They shook hands once, then returned their attention to the boss.

Preston felt like he was holding court between two rival nations. Antoine had never truly met Rigel, but Preston already knew his housemate disliked her for two reasons. Firstly, Antoine was quite convinced Rigel was a spy. Secondly, Antoine always wanted to be close to the center of Preston's attentions. He got miffed when Preston's focus wasn't on him. Not sulky, exactly, but Antoine had an oddly possessive side to him. Antoine had asked one night when they curled up together: _You're mine. So that means I'm yours; right?_

It had been an oddly insecure thing for Antoine to ask. _Of course you're mine, qíngrén_. Through the gentle haze of pre-sleep and Xanax, Preston had reached out and stroked Antoine's soft hair, twirling a strand around his fingers.

 _Cheen-ren, eh?_ Antoine had muttered, trying the word out in his mouth, getting the pronunciation mostly accurate. _What is that? Japanese?_

 _Chinese actually. Mandarin_. Preston nuzzled up against Antoine's chest.

 _I see._ _Gonna tell me what that one means?_

Preston shook his head into the pillow, and giggled. _Nope. Not at all. But it's nice_.

 _That's good then_ , Antoine replied, yawning. _I like it when it's good._

Preston brought himself back from that memory. He focused on the two employees sitting before him. _His_ employees, he reminded himself. Not Dimas', and definitely not Rhonda's. In this moment, they were both under his command, and awaiting instruction. Best not to keep them waiting.

"As I'm sure you're both aware, we have the Rotary Ball coming up in less than two weeks. This is a big event for the city, and our company especially. I'll be making a presentation and donation on behalf of the Plateau City Nuclear Generating Station."

Preston turned to his pilot and housemate. "Antoine, I know you've been to this before. You know what to expect."

Antoine nodded in agreement.

He focused his attention to Rigel. "Miss Vought, are you familiar with the event at all?"

Rigel folded her hands delicately over the notebook in her lap. "I've been following the news about it. Donating to both the local and global events. This year's theme is 'Home for the Holidays,' with donations going to support outreach programs for homeless families in Plateau City, and housing projects abroad." She glanced at the ceiling, remembering. "It's a white tie event, very posh. Significant media coverage. There's a silent auction; donations typically range from local artists' works to priceless antiques." She rolled her shoulders. "That's about all I know."

Preston smiled approvingly. "That sums it up in a nutshell. Naturally, I will be there; and therefore, both of you will be accompanying me as well."

Rigel and Antoine exchanged apprehensive looks. Preston caught it. He ignored it. Misery loves company, he knew. At least all Rigel and Antoine had to do was look good, follow him around, shake some hands. It wasn't like they had to make a speech and hand over a giant check. Preston's jaw tightened. _We're all in this together_ , he thought firmly. Time to tell Rigel to do the jobs he used to do for Dimas. The irony was not lost on him. He'd rather do it himself; his station prohibited it.

"Miss Vought, we will be travelling together by limo, leaving from here. Please make that happen." Preston felt nervous. He knew he shouldn't, but the idea of releasing control to anyone was uncomfortable. What if she couldn't make this happen? Should he go though and create a back-up plan just in case. He took a sip of his tea and tried to look composed.

Judging by the neutral expressions on Antoine and Rigel, his illusion was working.

"Antoine," he began, "you already know all the major players. I'm not concerned about you." Preston turned his attention to Rigel. "Miss Vought, I'm going to give you a current list of who's-who so you can keep track of the names and faces. I've also made sure there are a few personal notes in there as well." Preston reached into his desk drawer and pulled out his familiar tablet. He ran a hand over the leather cover, then passed it across the desk.

"This is yours for the term of your employment with us, or until such a time as I decide otherwise. It's linked to my information. It will allow you to do your job in regards to scheduling and contacts from anywhere; and I do mean anywhere. It uses a TorusCom data link. You'll probably find it easier than a notebook, but I'm not telling you to get rid of your notepad. I do want you to start using this though. Get familiar with it."

Rigel took the tablet and set it on her lap.

Preston leaned over the desk and gestured to it. "On the homescreen is a database. It's divided into two sections: local and national. The local level, that's the who's-who of Plateau City. The national section lists the major players in atomic industry in the US, and a few other names and faces from some of the other energy groups."

Rigel opened the tablet and examined the application.

Preston snapped his finger, remembering. It was something he'd added for Dimas. "There's a third library, actually. It contains the names, faces, and contacts of various legislators that our favorable to our endeavors. You'll want to know them too."  
 _Well, that's been easy so far_ , Preston mused. As long as he pretended he was in control, the illusion seemed a success. _If I can't naturally be a CEO, at least I can play one on TV_. He chuckled. That was an "Antoinism" right there, a pop culture reference, though he wasn't even sure from what. It really didn't matter right now. He found, strangely, he was actually enjoying this whole "being in charge" thing. The way Antoine and Rigel sat neatly, waiting for his words? Preston had to admit he liked it.

"I think that covers the ball," he concluded, resting his hands on the desk. "Any thoughts? Concerns?"

Preston's small crew looked at him, then at each other.

"No, Mister Tucci," replied Rigel thoughtfully.

Antoine merely shrugged. "I'm good."

Preston nodded approvingly. "Very well. I'll let you both get on with your days, but there is one other thing."

Both sets of eyes were riveted on him.

"Health insurance. We all need it, by law, we have to have it. Our insurer wants to raise rates for our employees. I've been kicking around a few ideas that might help lower costs. I want you to keep your eyes and ears open. See if you see areas where employee health could be improved. Like I said, I already have a few ideas of my own, but things are different at the entry and hourly levels than they are up here. You both have more interaction with the rest of the staff than I do." He folded his hands on the desk. "Whatever I decide, I want to make sure it's something applicable across the employee spectrum. So, keep that in the back of your minds."

Preston glanced from one to the other. "Do either of you have any questions about anything we've discussed?"

Rigel and Antoine shook their heads.

"Good," Preston replied with a businesslike smile. "Thank you for your time. I'm sure I've kept you both long enough." He made a dismissing gesture with a delicate hand.

Antoine and Rigel both rose in unison, much to Antoine's chagrin. He stole a mildly annoyed look at Rigel, then ambled out. Rigel had started to head back to her office, but Preston held up a finger. "Miss Vought?"

"Yes, sir?"

"I want you to use that tablet. If you need to add programs to it that will help you do so, you have permission to. Make it yours, get to know it."

"Yes, sir," Rigel replied. She paused to ask if she were excused, but Preston had already put his head down and was reading another sheet of paper. Or at least trying to give the illusion of doing so. He watched out of the corner of his eye as she returned to her office.

Only after he was completely alone did Preston allow himself a sigh of relief. Rigel hadn't let him down yet. He had no reason to believe she wouldn't be able to manage reserving a limo for them. If transportation was taken care of, and he already had a suit, all that was left was that speech.

Preston glanced at the ceiling thoughtfully. If he could fake being in control in front of two people, there was no logical reason he couldn't play-act the part in public.

 _I need a persona!_ Preston decided. _Some public façade I can maintain easily at these things._ He remembered how he'd acted around Smithers when the man had first come to Plateau City. He'd been intimidated by the older man's cool nature and credentials. As a defense, Preston had been downright haughty towards his guest. _No, not quite that arrogant_ , Preston thought. _That won't win me any friends. I'll ask Antoine what he thinks when I see him tonight. I'm sure he'll have some ideas._

Preston returned to his documents. This time he was able to focus.


	11. Chapter 11

Antoine didn't worry about commuting with Preston to work. Ever since his little chat with Rhonda, he knew she wouldn't ask about them travelling together again. Rhonda, "Rowdy," the so called "Ma Proton" herself would avoid an investigation at all costs. She'd keep her name clean for too long to ruin it now.

Antoine knew that didn't mean she'd given up. He thought about that as he tossed his backpack into the rear seat of Preston's sedan and stared out the moon roof. "I still can't believe you chose a Cadillac," he observed.

Preston shrugged. "I like the look of the CT6; and my father always had Cadillacs. I guess that's one thing he and I have in common." Preston fell quiet and focused on driving. Antoine went back to his thoughts.

Preston wasn't safe, not by a long shot. At least he'd staved off Rhonda's attacks for the moment while she regrouped. He was more concerned what Rhonda would do in, no _when_ , she found out about the cohabitation arrangement he had with Preston. Antoine knew he wasn't book smart, but he'd been around the block a few times. It would take Rhonda nothing more than a phone call to Human Resources under some guise of legit inquiry, and she'd have their address.

While Preston got himself settled, Antoine slogged down to the end of the driveway to check the mail. It had finally snowed, but the alternating winter and warmth meant there would be no powdery white blanket this Christmas. The snow was heavy and wet, gobbets of slush that ranged from off-white to brown. It was like walking through perpetual mud. Very cold mud.

Antoine brought the mail in and tossed it on the counter then went to change into something more comfortable. Mostly bills and junk. Something that looked like a Christmas card envelope.

That was a first. Antoine didn't get Christmas cards. He neither sent, nor received any. He hadn't even thought about Christmas with Preston, and mentally kicked himself. He should at least get his roomie a card.

"Hey Preppy, you got mail," he called out, not bothering to read the address. He settled down into his den in the basement. Antoine switched on his game console, and fired up the TV. Grand Theft Walrus. With cheat codes enabled, of course. He turned up the bass, and prepared to immerse himself with some serious havoc in Liberty City when he heard Preston yelling something from the top of the stairs.

Pause.

Sigh.

"What's up, Prep?" he asked, leaning back and looking towards the door.

Preston held the card envelope out. "You might want to come up here a minute."  
Antoine gave his game a longing look, then padded up to the kitchen hall. "What's up?" He repeated, confused.

"You might want to look at this." Preston offered him the envelope. "It's addressed to both of us."

Antoine blinked in surprise. It was indeed addressed to Mister A. Radison and Mister P. Tucci. He was also surprised that Preston hadn't opened it. Antoine shrugged. "It's from Waylon and Burnsie," he observed. "So now we gotta send them a card." He lifted it out of Preston's hand. "You, uh, you do anything for Christmas with your family or anything?"

Preston shook his head. "Not really, to be honest. They generally go on a pacific cruise for the holidays."

Antoine regarded Preston silently for a moment, thinking. He tried to picture Preston lying out on a pool chair on the deck of some cruise ship. He couldn't see it. It had taken significant prodding to get his dear friend to join him on the beach. Antoine smiled at the memory. He couldn't wait for their next trip. He reached out and threw an arm around Preston's neck, planting a warm kiss on the thin man's cheek.

Preston blushed furiously. "Jeeze," he muttered shyly. "What was that for?"

Antoine smirked. "I don't have boundaries or impulse control and it seemed like a good idea at the time." He tore the envelope open and shook the card into his hand.

It wasn't what he'd expected. A single, non-folded piece of fancy looking stationary. He handed it over to Preston without reading it, and leaned against the counter.

Preston read the card, then put a hand to his mouth. His face whitened, then blushed. Antoine watched curious as Preston rotated through a whole rainbow of hues, all without speaking. Preston sat down quickly, and looked both happy and awkward at the same time. Antoine was perplexed. He gave Preston a _what's up with you?_ gesture.

"It's not a Christmas card," Preston said, struggling to suppress whatever emotion it was he felt. Antoine couldn't even tell anymore. Joy? Embarrassment? Shock? Preston's brown eyes were wide, his face oddly flushed. He struggled to maintain his composure, but he didn't look upset, at least not to Antoine. What is going on with him now? Antoine thought perplexed. He reached out and snagged the card. Once he read it, he understood better. Everything was simply written: black ink on a cream background.

 _Waylon and Montgomery_

 _Request the pleasure of your company_

 _Cordially invite you to join them_

 _In the celebration and joy_

 _Of their union._

The date listed was April eighteenth, the location: Burns Manor. A further note at the bottom added that this was a small and discrete event.

It didn't surprise Antoine all that much. He smiled. "Eh! Good for them. 'Bout time too." He set the card on the table. "You okay, Preppy?"

Preston seemed to be wrangling with an entire street gang of emotions. Antoine wondered vaguely what that must feel like. Preston was a curious, sensitive little creature who had feelings Antoine didn't even know existed. Such traits made him all the more endearing to Antoine.

"I'm fine," Preston replied, struggling with his expressions. "I just… I'm one of these people who…"

Antoine interrupted him, remembering. "I know," he purred. "You get weepy at movies. You're probably the sort that cries at wedding too, right?"

"I do." Preston hid his face in his hands, but Antoine could see his skin redden. Antoine debated indulging his urge to embrace Preston; actually resisted for a moment or two before giving in. _Oh, what the hell_ , he decided. Antoine swooped in behind Preston and wrapped his arms around Preston's neck. He rested his chin on Preston's shoulder, close enough to smell the cologne Preston wore. "You're shy when you're adorable. Anyone ever tell you that?"

Preston reached back and patted Antoine's head. "Only you."

Antoine let his lips brush across Preston's hair. "Well then, that means I'm your first!" He stood up and ran a hand through Preston's artfully tousled locks. "That means you'll never forget me." He beamed, and jotted down the date on their calendar. "I'm going to go downstairs, blow off some steam with the good ol' Playstation. I'm not really hungry, so are you okay fending for your own dinner tonight?"

Preston nodded. "I'll make myself a sandwich or something."

Antoine paused. "I've got a few bottles of kombucha in the fridge if you want one. You should have one. I made a batch with chia seeds this time. Help yourself, you know?" Antoine turned on his heel, and trotted downstairs.

He sat on the couch and unpaused the game, but his mind was elsewhere. Preston had gotten so giddy over a simple piece of paper. Silly little Preston, dear little Preston. A mystery to Antoine in so many ways. Antoine already knew how he felt. He loved Preston. It was that simple. Antoine was fairly certain Preston loved him too, though maybe not in the same way. Antoine had never asked Preston to explain the nature of his feelings in their dynamic. It was something Antoine wasn't sure he wanted to hear.

 _What if he wants us to be more than what we are now?_ Antoine wondered as he drove his car through the streets of the game. _I mean_ , Antoine reasoned _, I'm sure he's got his own wants, hopes and desires in this. I wanna make him happy; that makes me happy_. Antoine flipped his car over a ramp. His character leapt to safety and quickly hijacked a new vehicle. A virtual vehicle Antoine promptly crashed.

"I'm driving like crap today," he muttered out loud. This was supposed to be his time to decompress. If anything, it was adding to the mix. He paused the game and leaned back. Well, shit, he thought decisively. Antoine pulled his tee-shirt off over his head and absentmindedly rubbed his stomach.

"Hey, Preston!" he bellowed, throwing his head back towards the door.

He heard Preston's sock feet on the floor above him. The door creaked open. "What's up?" Antoine called from the top of the stairs.

"I'm done playing games. Come down here?" Though Antoine phrased it as a request, he hoped Preston wouldn't say no.

Preston came down a few steps. "What's up?"

Antoine stretched out. "I guess I just want to watch a movie with you, that's all." He gestured to the seat next to him.

"Which movie?"

"Whatever you pick out."

Preston hesitated. "What if it's something cheesy?"

Antoine shrugged. "You wanna watch one of your romance flicks? I'm down with that." He patted the couch hopefully.

"Let me go get one," Preston replied. He scurried off. Antoine listened to the patter of his feet across the floor above. A few moments later he heard Preston trotting down the stairs. He made his way lightly over to Antoine's game console and removed the disk. He set it to the side and put in a DVD.

"What are we watching?" Antoine asked, curious.

" _The Devil Wears Prada_." Preston handed the box to Antoine, who examined it thoroughly.

"I've heard of it, never seen it," Antoine admitted. "This doesn't sound like a romance film," he added, reading the back.

Preston settled in on the couch. "It's not. But it's one of my favorites."

Antoine shrugged. "Fair enough." He scanned through the list of actors as Preston cued up the film. "Hey, it's got Stanley Tucci in it. Is he some relative of yours?"

Preston laughed. "No, not at all. Don't you even know who Stanley Tucci is?"

Of course Antoine didn't know. He'd never had the time to keep track of actors and actresses. Too many names, so many faces. An endless parade. He had too much to worry about in his own life to focus on someone else's. Other than Preston's, of course.

"Cesar Flickerman."

"What?" Antoine replied, looking confused. The nickname he'd occasionally earned from his blue hair.

Preston laughed and patted Antoine's bare flank happily. "No, not you! Cesar Flickerman from _The Hunger Games_. Stanley Tucci played him."

"Oooh," Antoine observed, realization dawning. "I get it. So he's that guy." Antoine smirked. "Does he have blue hair in this too?"

Preston gave Antoine a friendly jab. "Just hush up and watch the movie." He settled in against Antoine's side. Antoine reached out, drawing the familiar warmth that was Preston closer to him. He loved to feel Preston's skin against his. He raised his arm for a second while Preston readjusted himself, then laid it back down across the thin man's back. "Alright then," Antoine hummed. "Here we go, watching your movie. You know, I must really like you to for this…" He let his voice trail off. Despite the images on the screen, Antoine found his eyes kept drifting back to Preston at his side.

 _Maybe we'll never be like Burns and Waylon_ , he thought quietly. _But as long as Preppy's happy, and I'm happy, that's good enough for me._ He stroked Preston's narrow back lightly. Spending the holiday season and hopefully many more in the company of his truest friend? Best Christmas present ever!

That night, as they curled up together, Preston asked him a question he wasn't expecting, about what sort of person he should be in public. Antoine was admittedly taken back by that, failed to initially comprehend the remark. Once Preston explained better, about taking on a role of sorts to handle the mingling and public speaking, Antoine understood completely. A mask. A public façade. Antoine knew all about those.

"Pick something that's easy to maintain for long periods of time, Preppy," Antoine explained. "Something that's an extension of your nature. Me? I'm a goof. Each new school I tried to set myself into the role of class clown. It helped me fit in." Antoine rolled on his back and looked at the dark ceiling. "You're serious, and sometimes you can quite the overbearing. So, eh, why not go with yuppie playboy? You know: young, rich, smart, educated. Flashy. It's practically you anyway. You've got the car, looks and brains. Now, all ya gotta do is be 'all that,' you know?"

Preston's head was on his chest. "You think I'm smart, good looking?"

"Does the pope wear a pointy hat? Of course I do. You don't need to impress me. Now you just have to get the city to see you like I do, and you'll be society's golden boy. I'd like to see that, you smooth talking and making ladies swoon."

Preston draped an arm over Antoine's chest. "Wouldn't you get jealous?"

Antoine pretended to think for a moment? Jealous? Nope. Not him. Perhaps if he were normal, or gay. But Antoine had to admit he couldn't consider himself either. _Special little fucked up snowflake_ , he thought with a twinge of humor. The idea of seeing Preston prancing about was both amusing and exciting at the same time. For some reason, he liked the idea of watching Preston flaunting his assets to the world.

"It's just an act, so what do I have to worry about, right?"

"Exactly," Preston agreed.

Antoine lay still for a moment, thinking. Finally, he asked a question he hoped would not shock Preston. More, he wanted to test the waters of his own comfort. "Hey Prep?"

"What's up," asked Preston softly.

"Would you mind, eh… if you don't mind… do you think you could rub my belly a little?"

Preston didn't say anything, didn't move, and Antoine was beginning to fear he'd crossed some invisible line when he felt Preston's smooth hand gliding on his side. Antoine held his breath as Preston's hand moved in a circular motion across his chest, sliding lower, caressing his soft stomach. Antoine's body was still. His mind was a whirlwind. He concentrated on the sensation as Preston's fingers slid lower still, sliding along the waistband of his pajamas. Respectfully, Preston's hand didn't roam further. Antoine didn't need to be a mind-reader to know what Preston was thinking. Preston was naïve, but inquisitive.

There had been moments that could've turned into something more… then Antoine would explain his limits gently but firmly. Not that he was opposed to testing boundaries, of course, he did that all the time; but it had to be on his terms. Cuddling was fine, but there was an invisible line in their friendship he was unwilling to cross. Fortunately, Preston never pushed the issue.

He savored the sensation of Preston's cool fingers on his hot skin, noting how Preston's hand had slowed. He reached over and pulled the blanket further up Preston's back. His thin partner snuggled in deeper, and made a sleepy sound. Like clockwork it seemed he fell asleep at exactly ten thirty every night. "That's nice," he mumbled, voice thick with sleep. "Goodnight, Antoine."

"Night, Prep," Antoine replied. Unlike Preston, he felt wide awake. He closed his eyes, and waited for sleep to come.


	12. Chapter 12

Rigel, tablet in hand, sat in front of the dour and imposing figure that was Rhonda LeBlanc. Rhonda tapped her hands lightly together. "So they're both going to the charity ball tonight?" she asked, eyes predatory.

Rigel blinked once, then nodded. "They are."

Rhonda scoffed. "Hardly appropriate behavior for an executive, wouldn't you agree?"

Rigel eyes the woman who had hired her carefully. "It depends, ma'am," she replied. "I took the liberty of viewing some of the previous years' articles from the society pages, for the purpose of my own research. Mister Radson has attended the event with former CEO Mister Dimas since the first year Dimas hired him. It seems he's rather a fixture."

The senior vice president regarded Rigel carefully. "So you think it is appropriate to bring non-management employees to a formal event, even when there is no good reason to do so."

Rigel shook her head. "On the contrary, ma'am; I would find it completely inappropriate. I have noticed though, that some of the other executives bring along important functionary employees to these events. My presence is a necessity to my boss; Mister Radson is as much a status symbol to the plant as he is anything else in this case. I believe, though I never met the man personally, that Mister Dimas most likely brought him along as a display of authority, showing that we are one of the few agencies to have a personal pilot on staff for the chief executive. Actually, as far as I can tell, we're the only company in attendance who has a personal pilot."

Rhonda growled low in her throat, and stood up. She paced the length of her fishbowl office, then stopped, facing her balcony. She glanced over her shoulder at the serious-faced young woman behind her. "I trust, Rigel, if you see anything out of compliance, you will do the right thing tonight?"

Rigel bowed her head. "Absolutely, ma'am."

"Good. Now please, I'm sure you have a mountain of work ahead of you. As do I. Thank you for your time." Rhonda clasped her hands behind her back, looked out over the snow covered grounds, and didn't move until Rigel had left.

* * *

"Smithers!" a familiar voice cut through Waylon Smithers' quiet office. He quickly stacked the papers on his desk, and hurried into Burns' massive office. The master of the atom eyed him up and down. "So, tell me, Smithers, have you heard anything back from young Tucci regarding… you know what?"

Smithers shook his head. "If you're referring to the fuel rods, we haven't talked about it since that one call several weeks ago."

"Hmmm, I see." Burns tented his fingers and tilted his head. "But that was not what I was referring to." Burns hunched his shoulders. "I was referring to the invitations. Have you heard anything back?"

Smithers gave a laugh of relief. "Oh, those, yes! Absolutely. Everyone's responded; everyone's coming."

Burns tented his fingers. "Excellent. That makes, what, six in total."

"Seven, I believe," replied Smithers. "Counting the minister."

"You were able to find one, were you?" Burns probed, eyes sharp. "I trust such an individual will be able to keep his mouth shut?"

Smithers nodded. "Absolutely, Monty. I'm quite sure I have him under my thumb."

Satisfied, Burns relaxed a degree. He smiled innocently at Smithers. "I must admit, Waylon, I was surprised you didn't invite any of your family."

The floor had suddenly become very interesting to Waylon Smithers. He regarded the thick carpet pensively. Finally he looked up. "I can't really invite my mother now, can I?" he asked, settling into one of Burns' guest chairs. "What a disaster that would be."

Burns regarded Smithers. "Humor me," Burns replied. "Oh, I'm quite sure I already know your answer, but I want to hear it in your own words, Waylon. Are you ashamed of me? Unwilling to let your family know of our 'arrangement?'"

"It's nothing of the sort," Smithers replied crossing his left leg over his right. "My cousin Robbie is a punk at the best of times. He always teased me as a child, and we were never particularly friendly even when I lived with his parents. I am perfectly happy not to see him ever again."

"What about Caroline?" Burns prodded.

Smithers shook his head. "We've drifted apart. She's married, has a husband. Adam I think his name is. She also has a son named Jeffrey. I couldn't exactly invite her without inviting them too; and I don't know anything about Adam." Smithers rested his elbows on his leg. "So tell me, Monty, what about you? Why didn't you invite half the town?"

Burns folded his arms across his chest. "That is not a fair question to ask, Smithers. You already know the answer; but I'll humor you as you did for me. I invited my son Larry, of course, and his wife, Janet. Naturally, I added my grandchildren Elliot and Donna to the list. So that, Smithers, is four for me, and two for you. As far as I know, you merely invited Tucci and the pilot, correct?"

Smithers shrugged in affirmation. "Does the small scale of things bother you, Monty?"

Burns shook his head. "No, no. I daresay Smithers, that discretion has always been a big part of my life. I am too old, and too staid to change course now. I've kept the entire town at arm's length for decades. That suits me just fine." He regarded Smithers, a faint hint of sadness playing behind his blue eyes. Burns untented his fingers, and folded his hands in his lap.

"I worry, Waylon, that I have inadvertently or not caused a schism between you and those you might've once considered friends through my monopoly of your time these long years."

"I don't look at it that way, Monty."

Burns pursed his lips. "No?"

"Not at all. I mean, sure, I could've refused to spend so much time with you, but honestly, I enjoyed it. I still do. Maybe I don't have a huge gathering of friends to show for my life, but I have you. I'm happy. Isn't that what matters?"

Burns mulled over Smithers' words carefully. "I suppose, yes. That is a page worthy of note. Still, it saddens me in some regards. You will never have an heir to pass on your legacy. You will simply grow old with me, and then what?" Burns made a flipping gesture with his hands. "Poof. Nothing."

Smithers smiled and shook his head. "No, not nothing. I was married once Monty, remember? I could've had children if I wanted to. It wasn't in the cards for me, and I don't regret it." Smithers gave a short laugh. "If I have children I certainly don't know about it; and no one's brought it to my attention." He expected Burns to join in, but the older man sat as if thinking. Smithers' amusement died in his throat. He regarded Burns' serious expression a bit nervously. "Monty?" he asked slowly.

Burns drew back his lips. It wasn't a smile. "I never thought I had children until Larry found me."

A tiny surge of doubt ran through Smithers' veins. He ran a finger along the collar of his shirt, which seemed to have grown uncomfortably tight. "Well, I'd think I would've noticed if my wife was pregnant, don't you?"

"Ah Waylon, as I recall, you left impulsively, without adumbration. From what I gathered in casual observation there had been little in the way of open communication between you two for quite some time. It is not outside the realm of possibility you begot your own progeny, unbeknownst to you."

 _Definitely choking me_ , Smithers thought. He fumbled to loosen his bowtie, hands moving numbly. He took off his glasses. "Monty," he began, "that's not the case. And even, were it the case, it's been something like twenty years now. If my wife, _ex-wife_ , had wanted to let me know she would have." He rubbed his eyes. "You're the one who deserves an heir, not me. And you have one, with Larry. It's odd enough to think in a few short months he'll be my stepson. Stranger still when I think about the fact he's quite a bit older than me."

Smithers set his glasses on Burns' desk and found himself wishing for a cigarette, or a drink. These past few months had taken a toll on his nerves. It was nothing he couldn't handle, he knew, but it was more than he liked.

In the past year, Smithers' life had gone through several upheavals. Not all of them bad, of course. He was happy to finally have a relationship with Montgomery Burns that he'd always hoped for. The man treated him a friend and equal. He'd even stepped up to becoming a co-owner of the Springfield nuclear plant. Though his job duties hadn't changed that much, he now stood on an equal footing with Burns. He'd been granted the title of Chief Operations Officer, the same one he'd held on paper at Plateau City. Except here, back in Springfield, the title wasn't a temporary honorific. It defined his new status; though Smithers had to admit the appellation meant little to him. It wouldn't have mattered what Burns called him.

Truthfully, had little concern these days. He knew how Burns regarded him. Their dynamic had evolved significantly. Gone were the days of groveling and menial tasks. These days he was a peer, an equal; sometimes even a friendly adversary.

Smithers was always rather shocked that Burns seemed to appreciate a small degree of willful insubordination. Not that Smithers went out of his way to rebel, of course, but Burns appeared to like the challenge of keeping Smithers in line. And Smithers found, contrarily, he liked the freedom to challenge his partner. They'd had a spirited debate not too long ago about the nature of the pipes in the cooling towers.

Burns insisted they could get a few more years out of them before they needed repairs.

Smithers countered that if they weren't replaced by the end of the quarter, there would be nothing left to repair. He held out a small fragment of material in his hand, and crushed it to powder. _If so much as a pigeon lands on them, they'll disintegrate_.

 _Bah, you worry too much, Smithers. Those falcons we keep have eaten most the pigeons for miles_.

Smithers had folded his arms across his chest. _Alright. Then what happens when one of your falcons decides to land on the pipes? No, Monty, we're pulling from the C Budget, and replacing the pipes._

Burns had sulked in his chair, but Smithers could see the faint glimmer of approval in his partner's blue eyes. Smithers knew Burns appreciated his work, but he also knew Burns' character. The man's very nature prompted him to balk and fight Smithers every step of the way; even when he ultimately supported the undertaking.

It was part of Burns' very makeup. He once had told Smithers, metaphorically Smithers assumed: _I will never kneel before another man, my knees don't bend that way_.

Smithers, feeling rather sassy that day gave Burns a wink and promptly quipped: _Well, I guess that just means I'll have to lie down for you then_. He waited a few seconds while Burns realized what he was implying. It was like watching an epiphany in slow motion, the puzzled look giving way to surprise, then finally theatrics. He'd leapt to his feet, and threw a crumpled ball of paper in Smithers direction.

 _Get out of my sight, you insatiable beast. Why, I suspect if I were ever to fail keeping my wits about me, you'd ravage me like the young satyr you are. Begone with you, lest I fall victim to your shameless depredations!_ Smithers was already on his feet, snickering in delight as he dodged yet another harmless missile from Burns' desk.

 _Ah_ , Smithers thought, remembering, _good times. A nice break from the now_. The present could be sobering. He reached for his glasses, still on the desk from moments before.

"I've found a minister for the ceremony. I told you that, right?" Smithers asked.

Burns nodded. "Indeed you did. Moments ago as I believe. And that brings us full circle to the start of our little chat. Young Tucci. He's your project. I won't interfere, but I have to know: what are you going to do with him?"

"He knows too much, and I don't quite trust him to keep his mouth shut. When he comes out here, I'll have a little talk with him. Actually, we both will."

Burns tapped his chest. "Me? What on earth for? What benefit could I possibly derive by chatting with some inexperienced young pup?"

Smithers raised an eyebrow. "Well, he is a CEO, is he not? Don't you take a personal interest in maintaining communications with the other plant owners around the country? He is a future atom baron, fledgling though he may be. Probably the youngest plant owner in the country, if not the world."

Smithers slipped on his glasses. "In addition to knowing too much, he represents an unusual demographic in a league of… well, powerful, rich old men like us."

Burns laughed at Smithers worlds. "Like 'us' eh, Smithers? Finally your endowments are sinking in through that thick skull of yours, yes? Well," Burns smiled, "it's good to see you're finallyacknowledging what you are." He leaned back and glanced at the clock on the wall. "I'll entertain your little leisurely hobby with Tucci as long as it doesn't interfere with my agenda."

"I figured you'd see reason, Monty."

"Balderdash, Smithers. I hardly call this reason. But if it makes you happy… I suppose I can tolerate it for now." Burns' mouth was set in a prim line, but his eyes shone with a subtle mirth. Obscure to some, but blatantly obvious to Smithers.

The younger man kept his face straight as best he could. "Thank you, sir."

Burns gave a toss of his head. "I spoil you, I suppose. Ah, the whimsical fancy of an old man. Don't get too used to it, Smithers. I really am quite a despot."

"Of course you are, Monty. No one would ever think otherwise." Smithers gave a half bow, and chuckling softly, showed himself out.


	13. Chapter 13

Rigel Vought, Antoine Radson, and Preston Tucci fit themselves neatly into the modest limousine Rigel had reserved. Preston sat in the back seat; Rigel and Antoine on the bench along the side, maintaining a professional distance between them. Preston had to admit Rigel had done well with the choice, picking a vehicle based on comfort for the passengers, rather than sheer size.

It was a mistake, Preston knew, to assume that size was the most important factor. The vehicle she chose was modestly stretched: balancing the need to make a statement with the cost to the company. She'd made a remarkably savvy choice for such a young employee. Preston was impressed.

Antoine was also holding up well. Preston had been surprised to learn Antoine already owned proper attire for the evening. Admittedly he'd assumed Antoine probably rented what he needed, not viewing his friend as the sort to own a tailcoat. He'd only learned of it when he asked Antoine what he planned to wear.

 _The same monkey suit as every year_ , Antoine replied. _Had to get it let out a little_ , he added, regarding his paunch without apology. Catching Preston's befuddled look, Antoine had paused. _You don't really think I didn't own a dress suit, did you? I keep it in my tall locker, in the hanger. Keep my other suit there too. Never knew when Dimas might have something up his sleeve. Have to look the part, you know?_

Preston had still been perplexed. _But I've been in the hanger._ _You don't have anything there but a row of gear lockers._

Antoine smirked. _I guess you didn't notice that back wall doesn't quite reach to the ceiling. There's a little hidden passage I put in at the end of the row. I've got my home away from home behind those lockers. TV, microwave, space heater… even a couch._ He grinned at Preston. _What? You can't honestly think I didn't stay at the plant some nights, right? I mean, Dimas and his odd hours. It was easier just to camp over._

Preston made a face. _I guess that bothers me a little_.

 _Why?_

 _I don't like to think of you sleeping in a hanger._

Antoine made a face. _I've slept worse places. At least that space is mine, and up till now, no one ever knew about it but me._ A mildly concerned look crossed his face. _You're not going to make me clear out, are you?_

Preston shook his head. _No, but you know you would be welcome to use the bunk room, or even my office if you needed a place to stay for some reason_.

Antoine smiled, and clapped Preston on the back with a white-gloved hand. _Thanks for the offer, boss. We'll see. But for now, I'm happies with my bolt hole beside my Little Diva._ The helicopter. Lima Delta. Antoine always referred to the chopper as "Little Diva."

Preston had to admit as the rode, that Antoine looked sharp. He'd trimmed his beard neatly, and tied his hair back in a slick ponytail. He wore a traditional tailcoat and trousers, but there was a faint shimmery fiber woven into the black wool. It was subtle, but distinct. Not quite as lustrous as the suit Antoine had worn at a convention they'd attended in Albany, but it added a bit of flash. He wore a pair of gold cufflinks, monogramed with the initials AER. Preston realized he'd never asked about Antoine's middle name. Now, at least, he knew it started with an "E."

Rigel was perhaps the most changed of all. She wore an ankle length gown made of some deep red cloth. It was sleeveless and bare-shouldered, she wore a tailored coat in the limo. She had a modified clutch purse, a case for her tablet and phone, which coordinated perfectly with her dress. Like Antoine, she wore gloves, though hers extended up to the elbow.

Rigel's normally sharp-spiked hair had been softened, and she'd taken the liberty of having the tips frosted. If she wore makeup before, Preston had never particularly noticed. Tonight, her eyes seemed luminous beneath the smoky eyeliner she'd had professionally applied. Or maybe she did her hair and makeup herself. There was no way for Preston to professionally ask such a question.

He looked down and scanned the index cards, familiarizing himself with the speech he'd be giving. The giant check, that had already been delivered to Hillcroft House the other day. He'd pick it up backstage just before going out. The event wasn't rehearsed, but the Master of Ceremonies and the organization crew behind the scenes handled everything.

Getting on stage was the least of Preston's worries.

He'd have to survive the gauntlet of photographers along the red carpet, and extensive mingling before he made it to the stage. Then, once he got up there, as long as he didn't stumble or forget his lines it would be fine. _No pressure, right?_ he asked himself sarcastically. He stole a quick glance at Antoine. He was glad that at least Antoine would be there. No matter what happened, or how badly he messed up, Antoine would still be in his corner.

Preston took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and tried to put himself into character. _You're a playboy, a stud. An Ivy League executive_ , he told himself. _You are going to wow them with your sophistication and charm._ He glanced at his housemate again. _Be the man Antoine thinks you are_ , he encouraged himself. _Pretend it's just you and him. You're talking to him, showing off for him. Strut your stuff_.

It was easier to say than the believe. Preston cracked his knuckled nervously. _Oh god_ , he thought as the car approached Hillcroft and slowed, _I can't do this. I can't do this… I_ have _to do this_.

Their limo had drifted to a graceful stop at the foot of the walk. One of the ushers was already opening the door. Antoine gave Rigel a toothy grin. "Ladies first."

Rigel stepped out, extending her hand naturally to the concierge. He guided her to her feet. Antoine winked at Preston. "Showtime." He stepped out, and Preston could hear him remark: "I'm a natural, I'm unique, and the camera loves me!"

Antoine and Rigel already waiting, there was nothing left but for him to follow suit. Preston could barely here over the ringing in his ears. Preston climbed out gracefully, and stepped between his assistant and pilot. He took the lead, Antoine and Rigel dropping neatly into step behind him. Had he glanced back, he would've seen Antoine occasionally snapping his fingers and winking at a camera; always the ham. Rigel walked straight faced, pleasant but focused.

For Preston, it was the longest eight yards of his life, yet once he stepped inside the door and checked his overcoat at the desk, the moment seemed as if it had taken no time at all. Rigel and Antoine in tow, Preston made his way into the main gallery of Hillcroft House. He held his head high in a confident stance, and smiled. Like Antoine had said: _showtime._

* * *

Rigel felt a bit overwhelmed by the event, but she couldn't let it bother her. Her first priority was to verify seating arrangements. Fortunately her fears that she'd have to juggle conflicting personalities had been unnecessary. Preston seemed genuinely liked by the few that knew him.

She watched as Preston slid gracefully through the crowd. He had long legs, it allowed him an easy stride. He had a glass of champagne in one hand, and was chatting with a member of the town council.

Rigel had done her homework, studied the names and faces. Plateau City was a far cry from her humble beginnings out near Ithaca, New York. She'd been born and raised on a hippy commune. She couldn't wait to leave. The urban life might've been different, but it suited Rigel far better. She observed her boss from afar. He moved like a dancer, pivoting gracefully though the milling throng. He seemed so demure at the office. Here she supposed he must be in his element.

She paused for a moment, to check the night's program and make sure she had everything timed properly. She needed to be sure she directed Preston to the stage no later than six forty-five. The presentations were between seven and eight o'clock. Dinner followed. It was five thirty now. There was time.

Rigel was about to make her way back to Preston's side when a hand closed gently but firmly around her elbow. She looked up in surprise. The pilot was standing at her shoulder, close enough for her to smell the slight piney scent of his cologne. He gave her a white-toothed smile that didn't meet his eyes. She couldn't help but notice the points of his eye-teeth.

"Miss Vought, Rigel," he purred with the charm of a wolf. "A moment of your time, please."

Rigel glanced nervously over towards Preston.

The pilot, Antoine, gave a slight squeeze. "Your boss will be fine without you for a few minutes. Come," he said, guiding her through the crowds to a quiet spot along the wall.

She stiffened in his grasp, but didn't resist. They passed a sharp dressed older couple. Antoine deftly positioned his body so they wouldn't see her arm in his hand. Antoine gave a cordial nod. "Doctor Belarus, Madam Belarus." They returned his greeting, and continued on their way.

Quickly, Antoine had her into a corner, pinning her arm to the wall. Rigel knew she couldn't break his grip if she wanted to. The man's hand wasn't tight, but his fingers had the locked grip of a bear trap. She felt a faint hint of panic, but decided to play it cool. He didn't smell drunk. She didn't _think_ she was in danger.

* * *

"Miss Vought," Antoine began, his smile utterly devoid of warmth, "I thought it good we have a little minute to get to know each other. You've been here several weeks. We've barely had a second to chat. Such a pity."

A server with a tray of drinks noticed them. She came over, offering the platter. Antoine smiled, took a flute of champagne and passed it to Rigel, then he took one for himself. "Thank you." He bowed his head graciously.

Rigel set her flute the edge of a table just within reach, but didn't drink it.

Antoine shrugged, and took a quick sip of his.

"Look, let's cut to the chase." He didn't feel like wasting time. The longer they stood in the corner, the more attention they'd draw. The last thing Antoine wanted was to make a scene at Preston's debut. He relaxed his hold on her arm, but not enough to let her leave. "I know why you're here. You're Rowdy's little spy. She hired you, and I'll be she's given you pretty specific instructions to make sure that guy there," he gestured to Preston, "doesn't do a thing she wouldn't want him to; right?"

Rigel squirmed uncomfortably and looked away. It was all the affirmation Antoine needed.

"Well, Riley, you seem like a good kid. But I'm gonna warn you this and I'm only gonna say it once: don't side with Rowdy. You lump yourself with her, and you'll get caught in the crossfire. It won't be pretty. Don't volunteer as tribute for team Rhonda; you know what I'm saying?"

Rigel's dark eyes met his unflinchingly. She raised her thin eyebrows. "Mister Radson, _Antoine_ , I'm not on anyone's side. I have a job to do, and that job is tend to the needs of that man, that _executive_ there." She gestured to Preston who was shaking hands with some man on the other side of the room. She gave Antoine a stern look. "What is this even about, anyways?"

Antoine snorted. "As if you don't know."

She folded her free arm across her chest. "Then humor me. Pretend you're the villain, and start monologuing."

Antoine glared at her. "Don't 'Disney reference' me, Riley. I can out-quote anyone one on any movie anywhere." Antoine took her champagne off the table and passed it over. She relented, and took it. "If we sit down, will you stay put?"

"If you let go of my arm so I _can_ sit."

Antoine growled, but did just that. He held her chair for her. Heavily, he dropped into the seat next to her. "Okay," he began, pointing a finger at her chest. "As if you don't know… which you do… we're gonna take this from the top." He folded his hands on the table in front of them, but didn't take his eyes off Rigel.

"Rhonda hates Preston. She hates him because she thinks he should never have been made CEO, even though the Board approved it. He became CEO after that incident in the news, that kidnapping one where our old boss got killed." Antoine twirled his champagne flute by the stem. _That's not how it happened, he thought bitterly_ , watching the bubbles. That truth didn't matter. Right now, the Rhonda one did.

"So, kidnapping. Fail. We all got shot at. I took an arrow to the chest. Prep- Preston there took a bullet to the stomach. Our boss tried to stop another arrow with his heart; but the arrow won and he died. Then I was in the hospital with a blood infection for a while, and when I got out Preston there – he used to be Dimas's assistant – was running things as interim CEO. You go away for a few weeks and everything changes, eh?" He laughed hollowly.

"Anyhow, Preston decides he wants to run for CEO, and we're all like, 'why not?' because we like him and who better to run it than someone who has been living in the boss's pocket for the past two years. Right?"

Rigel nodded slowly.

Antoine took another sip of his nearly empty glass and glanced around for a refill.

"Right. Well, ol' Rowdy there. Rhonda. Ma Proton. Whatever you want to call her, she takes offense at that. See, she started with Dimas from the very beginning, and honestly she's a damn fine vice-prez. I mean, if that place was to grow itself a human representation, she'd be it. She even looks like concrete too, when you come right down to it. You know, grey and square-ish."

Rigel shrugged her bare shoulders.

Antoine continued unhindered. "And I suppose this is kinda where I messed up. See, I was acting as Preston's personal assistant for a while. Doing your job because someone had to, and he couldn't do everything himself. I was the one who suggested he talk to Rowdy, get some ideas how to be a fantastic administrator. I didn't realize she already didn't like him. When he went to her, I guess she gave him some advice and all, but she also decided that was proof enough he couldn't do his job. So… now she wants him gone."

The flute was empty. Antoine sighed and pushed it away.

"That's where you come in. I've been around the block a few times. I may not be book smart, but I _know_ how people can act. It seems to me an astronomical coincidence that shortly after Preston asks Rowdy for guidance, and puts in a request for a personal assistant, Rowdy magically pulls you out of a hat without running it by him first. So you're here as a spy, and your mission is to feed evidence back to Rhonda so she can sink my boss."

All the while he'd talked, Rigel had sat straight and proper, arms folded neatly at her sides. She waited a beat to see if Antoine was finished. When he didn't speak again, she interjected. "Well, Mister Radson, I can definitely understand how you see it that way. And maybe, quite honestly you're right-"

Antoine puffed out his chest…

"-About Rhonda," the young woman finished. She took a sip of her champagne, then poured the remainder into Antoine's glass. "But you're not right about me." She made a move to stand. "Mister Radson, I don't give a damn about the little power struggled and politics at your nuclear plant. If I'd wanted to play that game, I'd be a campaign manager."

He started to speak, but she held up a hand. "You had your time to talk, now it's _my_ turn." She gestured out towards Preston. "My career is contingent upon his success. Do you think I'd honestly be stupid enough to sabotage myself? If he goes down, I go down too. What sort of future do you think that sets me up for? Do you honestly think, when the plant got a new CEO that they'd keep me? There's a high turnover in this field. I'd be rolled right out the door with him."

Antoine's lips drew back. He actually hadn't looked at it that way. He had to admit Rigel was accurate though. In the ten years that he'd worked at the nuclear plant, he'd seen Dimas go through at least four assistants; five if one counted Preston.

"Your so called 'Rowdy' would thank me for an excellent service to the company, then offer to write me a sterling recommendation for my next job. Good bye, so long, good luck. So yes, _Antoine_ , I get it your suspicions, but don't worry: I'm not playing your game. Understood?"

Antoine held up his hands. "Fair enough. I'm not going to apologize, if that's what you're looking for because I'll still be watching you… but as long as you're on Preston's side, I guess this is a truce." He finished the champagne she'd given him and offered his hand.

"I'm not on any side. A truce, or just a cease fire. Either way, I'll take it." She grasped his outstretched hand, and Antoine was surprised by how firm her grip was.

"So," Antoine said, sliding her chair out for her. "Wanna go see what our boy's gotten into now?"

Rigel couldn't give a small chuckle at Antoine's words. "It's what we're paid for." She accepted his arm up. "Oh, and by the way, I wanted to say thank you."

"For what?"

"For calling me 'Riley.'"

Antoine was taken back. "Really?" He tilted his head. "Rigel's an awesome name."

Rigel laughed. "Yeah, no. Not when you have to live with it."

He walked slowly next to her, the crowds parting around them. "Sounds like there's a story there," he observed.

"There is, but it's definitely not one for tonight."


	14. Chapter 14

Hillcroft House was aptly named, situated as it was along the palisades at the southern edge of the city, the so-called "historic district." Preston had been to Hillcroft once before when the Rotary hosted their fundraiser at the place two years ago. Or had it been three years ago? Preston figured it didn't truly matter. He'd been attending Thaddeus Dimas that night.

The great room looked exactly like he remembered it.

He strode into the room, trying to radiate a confidence he had yet to feel. Faces swirled around him, the music from the band some piece that gave the brass their time in the limelight. The wall along the eastern side of the room was all windows that overlooked the river. Hillcroft House was built what many would call precariously near the edge of the palisades. In summer, the front windows would be opened, allowing access to a lower balcony hugging the cliff edge. In winter, no such access tonight. The windows were sealed and framed with a lit garland of some evergreen weave.

The northern edge of the room was dominated by a stage and a towering Christmas tree, it's starred top nearly touching the rafters of the vaulted ceiling. The band, a small gathering with a mix of brass and strings, and a percussion set, was placed at stage right. In the center sat a podium with the spoked wheel logo of Rotary International.

"Quite the gathering," Preston muttered quietly, not bothering to glance behind him. No one replied, but he surmised his voice had gotten swallowed by the crowd. Out of the sea of people, a blond-haired man approached, his young wife, or possibly his daughter at his side. Preston recognized the man as one of the city aldermen. Thomas Haining. Haining quickly locked eyes with Preston and made a beeline over. "Mister Tucci, a pleasure to finally meet you," he announced, shaking Preston's hand then pausing to introduce the woman at his side.

She was Haining's daughter after all. Surprise, surprise. And she was attending Skidmore College in Saratoga Springs, home for the holidays apparently. Preston extended his own friendly greeting, and complimented her on her dress. He wasn't sure what else to say, but fashion was something he knew. "Kay Unger?" he asked, referring to the designer. The young woman clapped her hands to her mouth and made a girlish squeal.

"How did you know?" she asked, giving her father a smug look. _See_ , her eyes said, _I told you. People know!_

Preston went on to explain the slight stylistic flairs, as distinct as a signature; then added that it was particularly appropriate for the event, given the designer's passion for philanthropy. The girl, Victoria was apparently her name, hung on every word. "Oh, tell me more," she said, in classic cliché style.

Preston found, to his surprise he did not blush. He smiled warmly at Victoria. "What would you like to know?" he asked, offering a gracious half-bow and extending an arm.

Under Haining's somewhat skeptical eye, Victoria detached herself from her father's company. "Tell me a bit about yourself," she replied, batting her heavily mascaraed lashes.

Preston gave a nod to Victoria's father, an unspoken request for permission. Protocol. Unnecessary, technically, but it made a good impression. Thomas's expression was still that of the mildly distrustful father, the sort who would question any young man's intentions; even if that man seemed to know more than he ought about fashion designers.

Haining hesitated only a second. "Go on, my dear," he said to Victoria. He gave Preston a slight nod, then made his way off to rub elbows with the high society of Plateau City.

Preston slipped through the crowd, Victoria at his left arm. "About myself, hmmm?" he purred, trying to put every ounce of refinement he had into his words. "Well, I am the Director and CEO of the Plateau City Nuclear Generating Station. It's a position I've held for some time now. I graduated Cum Laude from Brown University in Rhode Island. MBA: Master of Business Administration, International baccalaureate program." He shrugged with what he hoped seemed modesty, and quickly tried to direct the focus back to her. That was what women liked, right?

"So you're attending Skidmore then?"

He asked Victoria about college: what was her field of study, how far in was she; was it going well, did she enjoy it. Simple, not-too-personal questions. Victoria happily answered, and explained she was pursuing a degree in Art History, with a minor in Studio Art. Preston listened intently, nodded at appropriate times, and periodically asking follow-up questions. Victoria seemed young, rather sheltered, but cheerful. At least she knew how to conduct herself at these events, Preston thought approvingly. He was beginning to worry about time (he hadn't worn a watch, they were inappropriate for such a venue), and looked quickly about for Rigel or Antoine.

For a moment, he didn't see them. A thin trickle of fear started to make its way down his back. Fortunately, Antoine's blue hair made him distinct in the crowd, and Rigel was at his side. Quickly, he sidled up behind Preston, allowing Rigel to approach. Victoria looked at the newcomers with polite curiosity.

Rigel slid up to Preston's right side. "Mister Tucci, you have another half hour before you need to be on-stage."

"Thank you, Miss Vought," he whispered back.

Preston took a step back and beamed proudly. "Victoria, please allow me to introduce my associates." He gestured to Rigel. "This is Miss Rigel Vought, my personal assistant."

Rigel shook hands politely with Victoria.

"-And this is Antoine Radson, my pilot."

Antoine gave a half-bow, and kissed Victoria's hand. "Enchantée, mademoiselle."

Victoria giggled.

Preston caught Antoine's eye. _A little over the top, don't you think?_

Antoine winked. Victoria thought it was for her. She blushed and tucked her face against Preston's shoulder. Preston, smiled slightly. He knew Antoine's wink was for him.

It didn't take long for Victoria to regain her composure. "So you have a jet?" She asked.

"Helicopter actually," Preston explained. "Technically, it belongs to the company, but, well…" he let his words trail off and gave her a smile.

"And he flies you wherever you need to go?"

He heard Antoine's voice cut in from behind him. "Well, technically Mister Tucci doesn't really need me anymore, Miss Haining. He's logged dozens, probably hundreds of hours by now. He's a fine pilot in his own right."

Preston felt Victoria's eyes on him, wide with adoration. "That must be so exciting," she breathed.

Preston smiled, his cheeks flushing slightly. "It can be, but that's enough about me. Please, tell me more about your artwork..."

* * *

Rigel watched Antoine, expression perplexed. What on earth was he doing? Was he purposefully trying to embarrass their boss? And, perhaps even more significant, Preston could fly a helicopter? She'd overheard Antoine mention it the day he rebuke Vice President LeBlanc, Rhonda, most severely. That had been a fearless display. Either Antoine was mad, or brilliant. Then again, Rigel considered, sometimes there was no boundary between the two.

Antoine clearly appeared to be reveling in some private joke. Rigel was sure she didn't know what it was. Still, for the first time she was truly getting to watch the interplay of the two men. Even though Preston's attention was focused on his female companion, there was a subtle undercurrent, a give and take between him and Antoine that never went away.

Rigel quietly observed them, making mental notes as she went.

Preston's speech went off without a hitch. He surprised himself. He flipped through the cue cards he had written, and looked about the crowded room. Everyone waited, patient yet eager. He could hardly blame them. After the donations, dinner would be served.

Antoine was easy to pick out from the crowd, his blue hair distinct among the sea of silver manes, brunets, and the occasional red or blond. _Did he give me a wink, or was that just wistful thinking?_ Feeling suddenly more confident than he had a minute before, Preston set his cards on the lectern, and began.

* * *

"Well, that went smoothly," Antoine remarked when Preston rejoined his small retinue at the table.

"It did, didn't it," he remarked, as he adjusted his white bowtie proudly.

Rigel, as she so often did, said nothing. Merely watched.

"Y'know," Antoine remarked, leaning closer. "I'm kind of surprised you didn't bring those pistols you got as a silent auction donation."

Preston sipped his water and shook his head. "Those were a gift. Irreplaceable antiques with a history. I'm not parting with them."

Rigel's dark eyes lit up, curious. "You have a collection of antique firearms?"

Preston smiled, and shook his head. "Hardly. Just two. A matched set of Elgin cutlass pistols." His face clouded over, just for a second, but it was long enough. "I'm… I'm not a fan of guns." He wondered privately how much Rigel knew about him. The story Smithers orchestrated had lit up the front pages for a week, then just as quickly faded from view. Smithers had written a very open-and-shut spin tale. There wasn't much room left for speculation and debate. Preston wondered, as he ordered his food, if Rigel even knew he'd been shot.

Preston also found himself wondering why he should care whether she knew or not. Was he really that hung up on it? Did his past ordeals at AlkaliStark really fill his mind that much of the time? It was something he'd have to talk to his therapist about next Thursday, he decided. No, he corrected himself. The following Thursday. Holiday season. Even psychologists need time with their families, he mused.

His train of thought continued to run of its own accord. Family. He wondered what his parents were up to. He'd sent a card to their address in Boston, the very house he grew up in. He hadn't heard back. He expected a postcard would be along shortly nonetheless. But to which address? His old one or Antoine's? Had he even given them Antoine's address? He ignored his water and took a small sip of champagne instead.

Antoine's address; he'd probably given it to them. He knew that he'd used it as the return address when he sent them a card for Thanksgiving. His parents were always the sort to care about cards, if not actual involvement, over the holidays. It was a tradition Preston had kept. He had a card for Antoine back home, but he wasn't sure if he should give it or not. He'd bought it on the spur of the moment, it said exactly what he felt. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed too much like a couples' card. He could see the words now:

 _Christmas brings many thoughts anew;_

 _Happy thoughts of the good times we've shared…_

 _Heart-warming thoughts of how kind and caring you are…_

 _And most of all: grateful thoughts -_

 _Because I am so lucky to have a special friend like you!_

 _Wishing you a wonderful and Merry Christmas._

Preston took quick stock of the other guests at the table. Everyone was still focused on eating. He didn't have to make small talk, or leave his own thoughts just yet. _I should just burn that card_ , he thought wryly. I _t's Antoine: humor, yes; sentiment, no. And especially nothing that would make us seem like a couple_. Preston berated himself for his choice, and concluded he'd definitely have to get rid of that before Antoine found it.

The servers cleared the table, and Preston was wondering what time would be appropriate to leave. He didn't want to be one of the first out the door, but the event was winding down. There was a fine line between staying fashionably late, and holding up the venue. Preston wished he'd worn a pocket watch.

Fortunately he was spared too much debate. The Master of Ceremonies and President of the Plateau City chapter of Rotary International were on the stage, thanking the guests, benefactors, everyone who had come, and wishing them a merry Christmas season. The less-than-subtle cue in polite society that the event was coming to a close, and it was time for them all to be moving on.

Preston got up, and shook hands with the other guests at the table. One of them, a man and his wife were anchors for the local news station. Well, she was the anchor. He worked behind the scenes in the production room. They explained they had a daughter, "just your age" the mother added.

Preston smiled as graciously as he could at the implication. It seemed to have been a theme of the evening much to his chagrin, and Antoine's apparent amusement. How was it that all these people conveniently had daughters who were "just his age" and single? Coincidence, Preston rolled his eyes. He thought not. _Single? More likely mommy and daddy don't approve of their daughters' current boyfriend_ , he thought not without a trace of cynicism.

They circled through, following the herds of society in the archaic goodbye rituals of handshakes and kissed cheeks. As they walked, Preston felt, rather than saw Antoine's presence at his shoulder. Antoine leaned in, the piney scent of his cologne filling Preston's nostrils. "How you holding up, Prep?" Antoine whispered.

"It's like stepping through the looking glass," he whispered back. "All these years of being the single son, having my parents try to set me up… now other people are pushing their daughters at me. It feels weird."

Antoine leaned back and snickered softly. "Well, you are the unofficial debutante tonight. Come on. You really expect anything else? And with me as your wingman, well, yeah. You crushed it." Antoine winked, made a clicking sound, then slid back a ways into the tide of guests. Rigel alone was at Preston's side. He looked down, as if surprised by her presence.

Out of habit, he offered her an elbow. Courtesy. Years of etiquette training drilled into his head. She smiled politely up at him, comfortable, but still professional. "Did you enjoy the evening, Miss Vought?" he asked as he held her coat out.

"I did," she replied, slipping an arm in. "I must confess this was my first event like this, sir."

Preston raised his eyebrows. "Really? I wouldn't have guessed. You kept me on schedule, knew names and faces like a pro. Rigel, I rarely say this, but I was impressed."

Rigel smiled. She didn't blush, she didn't look uncomfortable. Apparently she was one of those rare women who could take a compliment without getting flustered. Unusual, in Preston's experience. Rigel gave a respectful tilt of her head. "Anyone can do a job, sir. It's a matter of pride to do it _well_. But Mister Tucci, sir, may I make a small request?"

"Of course."

"I must admit, sir, I prefer 'Riley' or 'Miss Vought' to my given name; sir."

Somewhere in Preston's memory, he seemed to remember she'd said something about that. "Understood. Miss Vought, then. Forgive me, but I don't want to become overly familiar. I hope you understand."

Rigel pulled her coat around her as they stepped into the winter night. Finally, after weeks of sleet and rain it was snowing. Soft, fluffy flakes that lazily wafted out of the sky, reflecting in the streetlamps. Rigel turned her face upward, and smiled into the night air. She seemed to be enjoying the moment. Preston paused, realizing it was just the two of them. He looked over his shoulder. Antoine was nowhere in sight, and their limo was already pulling around.

Rigel caught his motion. She pointed towards the entrance. Antoine was hastily bounding down the steps, not exactly the picture of dignity as he buttoned his overcoat. "Hey, sorry," he breathed, sliding up to them. "There was something I wanted to take care of, you know? Anyhow, it's done, and I'm here. Good to go?"

The limo had coasted to a halt. The driver stepped out and held the door open for them. "Yes," Preston replied, Rigel still at his arm. "We are good to go."


	15. Chapter 15

The thing about working in nuclear energy, Antoine Radson knew, was that the industry never truly slept. Day and night the reactors ran, providing energy to the city.

Christmas day found him and his work crew doing maintenance in the administrative levels that were generally occupied during the normal workday.

Antoine was glad at least that he didn't have to dress up. He wore a pair of camouflage cargo pants and a graphic tee shirt with a picture of a surfing unicorn. Balanced on a ladder, he swapped out the fluorescent light tubes with four foot LED tubes; an initiative Preston, of all people had suggested. It came as the result of an argument at home.

Antoine had bought lightbulbs, incandescent ones. Preston protested that he only used LEDs because they were cheaper in the long run. After an argument about lightbulbs that went into way more depth than it needed to, at least in Antoine's opinion, Preston won. Antoine returned the incandescent bulbs and purchased the apparently correct type.

The debate, it seemed was far from over. Later that evening, they found themselves once again arguing about lightbulbs. Antoine, in frustration had finally announced that if Preston was going to be so obsessive about lightbulbs, why didn't he convert the plant to LED bulbs?

Preston thought that was a brilliant idea. He'd quickly submitted an expense proposal to the Board, citing that they could pull from the surplus in the helicopter budget for initial funding; and use the holiday downtime to do begin the change-over without interrupting workflow. The Board had agreed without any resistance. It was agreed to expedite the matter. Two days before Christmas, a supply delivery had arrived containing several crates of the LED tubes.

Thus, Antoine and a significant number of the infrastructure team were spending Christmas hanging lights, though not the decorative kind.

"You really think this is the way to spend your holiday?" Stewart asked as Antoine handed the fluorescent tubes down to him.

Antoine shrugged. "Ordinarily, it would beat sitting at home bored." He thought of Preston and the lightbulb debate. "But honestly, I'm not exactly thrilled to be here, you know?"

Stewart carefully stacked the old bulbs into their box. "At least it's double pay," he chirped.

Antoine rolled his eyes. "For you. I'm on salary."

"Ouch."

"Yeah."

They worked quietly for a while, periodically moving desks and chairs out of the way to get at the light fixtures.

Stewart, young chatty Stewart, could not stay quiet for long. "So, you have any plans for today? I mean other than being here? Party to go to, family or something?"

"No." Antoine carefully rotated another tube into position and replaced the cover. He thought about Preston. His roommate was at home, probably doing Sudoku or crossword puzzles in his favorite chair. When Antoine had left this morning, it seemed like it hadn't even registered to Preston that he was going to work. Antoine understood work, knew the importance of getting a job done. He had to be honest though, he did feel rather offended. Hurt even. It seemed like Preston was taking advantage of the situation. He would've liked it if Preston had come in to change a few lightbulbs, or at least offered. This was _his_ idea after all. It was almost out of character for Preston to be thoughtless like that.

Antoine wondered if he was still playing the role of snooty executive he'd worn at the party the other week. _If he is_ , Antoine thought grumpily, _that is not going to fly. Oh, we are going to be having a serious discussion about what I will and will_ not _do when I get home._ He took another bulb from Stewart and angrily pushed it into position.

* * *

Preston stood in the empty house alone, lost in thought. He felt bad for Antoine having to go to the plant. He'd offered his housemate the Cadillac, but Antoine had sulkily refused, and taken his ancient Geo Metro, Bessie.

Somehow, that little act hurt Preston the most.

Preston wandered into Antoine's room, and looked over the small collection of books Antoine kept on his dresser. There weren't many. Antoine wasn't much of a reader. Two books on beach life, a few on hiking and camping, one on hike-and-bike trails around Plateau City. There were also two glossy coffee-table books in the heap. One had pictures of various helicopters (of course), the second was a photographic essay of surfing culture.

Those books, less than ten, made up Antoine's entire library.

Preston worried perhaps he'd been too busy with work lately. With the end of the year coming, his priorities revolved around getting at least a few irons in the fire; proposals he could either handle himself or route to the Board if they were large enough. Antoine's comment about the lightbulbs might've been made in a moment of pique, but Preston had to admit it was brilliant. Preston wasn't sure off the top of his head how many nuclear generating stations were focused on green technology, but making a switch was a step forward.

Preston sat down on Antoine's bed and regarded the books thoughtfully. His mother once told him: "Don't wait for inspiration. Sometimes you have to go after it with a club." Later, Preston realized that was a quote from author Jack London.

Health insurance premiums, company costs… and here he was sitting on a bed doing what?

Looking for inspiration, he decided.

Antoine's room was as good a place for inspiration as anything on Christmas day. The man wasn't messy, per se, but he did have a tendency to leave things lying around his room when he was done with them. A pair of mountain bike gloves and a helmet sat atop the TV. There were a pair of those hideous toe-shoes tossed in a corner. A Hawaiian shift hung over the closet door. Disorganized, but not cluttered. Everything he owned served a purpose. Antoine wasn't one to keep mementos or knickknacks.

Earlier in the day, Preston debated going over to the plant to check on Antoine. He'd ultimately decided against it. Antoine would probably still be surly. Preston also worried about the implications of him coming in on his day off to help Antoine with lightbulbs. If that didn't start rumors flying, he wasn't sure what would.

What else, Preston asked himself, could he reasonably do at the plant? Business was largely halted for administrative tasks, and thanks to Rigel's work he was technically caught up. He could wander about "tour the spaces," as he called it, but then what? Nothing to do but walk around, and think.

Walk around… and think.

Something was playing at Preston's mind. Something, an idea or memory that fluttered just out of reach. Walking, thinking, employee health premiums… Preston snapped his fingers loudly. "There's the ticket!" he said to no one in particular.

The Plateau City Nuclear Generating Station, like most nuclear plants, occupied an area over a mile square. Technically, their plant sat on a two square mile plot, with half of the site being devoted to the existing plant, and the remainder largely unused. Originally the land had been purchased for surface storage with dry cask silos containing spent fuel rods. That had been something Dimas talked about. Preston knew it would never happen now. Preston didn't object to re-racking and stacking multiple assemblies in the cooling ponds. If the NRC said it was safe, he was sure it probably was.

The side parcel was currently wasted land; but it didn't have to be. There was space for a recreation park, even a jogging trail outside the main security line. Preston wondered what Antoine would do if they put in a bike park.

That was better use for that tract than spent fuel storage.

The idea of a park caught his attention.

An employee fitness program was one thing, Preston mused. He could have facilities built, but that didn't mean anyone would use them. A recreational area would be much more likely to draw use from the staff. It would cost less to maintain, and it would be a good way to segue into encouraging activity. It was something he'd have to pursue more seriously once the holiday season was over. Perhaps the plant could even donate to some of the local parks in the area, sponsor trail maintenance, something like that. Increase not just employee activity, but promote some community recreation sites as well. That would put a good name out.

Perhaps, if he were feeling particularly ambitions, he could consider looking into alternative energy fields. Not that he wanted to lose his plant, of course. Nuclear energy was a great thing. But maybe some "green" initiative would help improve the public perceptions of nuclear energy. Perhaps even donating a few small-scale projects like solar panels of wind turbines to help supply local non-profit organizations. Charitable interest on the part of the Plateau City Nuclear Generating Station, great press coverage; and a foot in the door for expansion.

Preston kicked the ideas around in his head. Definitely an avenue to consider. Feeling energized, Preston sat down at his computer, notepad in hand, and began brainstorming.

* * *

Antoine had almost finished installing the current shipment of bulbs with Stewart and a few other members of the team. He felt hot, tired, and filthy. By the time they got the last lightbulb installed, Antoine wanted nothing more than to go home and take an hour long shower.

Grease on his hands was one thing. Or mud from a hard bike ride. That was okay. Being covered in ceiling dust was another thing all together. It was gross. His mood towards Preston hadn't improved either. _Gonna give him a piece of my mind. Or maybe the entire pie_ , Antoine thought roughly.

He didn't even bother stopping at the decontamination showers to rinse off. Without a change of clothes, he'd just be putting the same fouled items back on over damp skin. Soggy dust was even worse than the powder. It was in his hair, his eyes; everywhere.

Antoine gave Stewart a fist-bump, wished him a Merry Christmas, and left.

Of course it had snowed while he'd been inside. Bessie was covered with a blanket of white. He pulled out the scraper and started sweeping the snow off, wishing he'd brought gloves; wishing he had more than tennis shoes to keep his feet warm. After what seemed like far too long, Bessie was cleaned off. He climbed into the car, knocking the snow of his wet and frozen feet.

Fortunately Bessie, for all her rather aged features, had an excellent heater. Soon he practically steaming. He might have been dirty and sopping wet, but at least he wasn't cold.

* * *

Preston heard the garage door open, the familiar rattle of Antoine's car as he pulled in. He bounded to his feet, feeling happier than he had in a long time. He couldn't wait to tell Antoine what he'd been researching online. Preston saved his work and made it to the entry just as Antoine was coming in.

"Antoine, I want to tell you something," he said.

Antoine's blue eyes regarded him stoically. "Later," Antoine said harshly. He shrugged off his canvas coat and dropped it deliberately on the floor, eyes never leaving Preston's. Without a further word stalked into his room and shut the door.

Hurt and confused, Preston picked up Antoine's jacket. It was soaked through. He hung it sadly in the hall closet. Preston stopped outside Antoine's room, and listened at the door. He heard Antoine turn on the shower.

Preston wandered into the living room, and picked up a copy of the local newspaper. He read through the business pages until he heard Antoine turn the shower off. A few minutes later, the sound of Antoine's TV reached his ears. It sounded like he was watching a reality show.

Preston bolstered up his courage, and walked down the hall. He knocked lightly. "Antoine?"

"What?" came the reply through the closed door.

"Can we talk?"  
"I'm watching TV," Antoine replied.

Preston leaned against the door frame. "Can I come in?"

"I can't stop you," came the weary voice.

Slowly, Preston opened the door and stepped in. Antoine was lying on his back on the bed, head and shoulders propped up with a stack of pillows. He raised his eyes to Preston, but did little else. "So, now you're in," he remarked, turning his face back to the TV.

Preston sat down on the edge of the bed. "What's going on with you?"

Antoine flipped aimlessly through the channels. "Isn't it obvious?"

"No, not really," Preston admitted.

Antoine paused on a channel showing some sort of extreme elimination challenge. Contestents were running through an obstacle course while avoiding water cannons and dodgeballs. One of the players took a ball to the stomach and toppled into the water. He surfaced, sputtering, and swam back to the beginning of the stage. "Poor dude," Antoine muttered. The show broke for a commercial, and Antoine finally muted the TV. He rolled on his side and rested on an elbow. "Okay. Here it is, Prep: did it ever occur to you that I might want to spend the holiday with you, instead of installing a bunch of stupid lightbulbs?"

Preston stuttered for a second, then looked away. It hadn't occurred to him at all.

"Yeah, I thought not," Antoine said. "I work for Sharon. She says she needs eight of us to swap bulbs. Volunteer, or be voluntold, she said. So, well, I said I would. And I did, because it's a job and it's what I do." Antoine rolled his eyes. "I dunno. I guess it's not a big deal. But I wanted to spend the day with you, maybe watch a movie or something; not replace bulbs."

Preston reached out tentatively. He laid a hand on Antoine's ankle. "There's still time. We could watch a movie if you wanted."

Antoine shrugged, then reached into the space between his mattress and the box spring. He made a noncommittal grunting sound. "Whatevs, Prep." After a moment, he pulled out a small, flat item wrapped in newspaper. "Got you a present though. Merry Christmas, or something." He looked away suddenly, and turned the volume back up on his show.

Preston took the gift gently. The wrapping style was distinctly Antoine. Not the neatest, rather spur of the moment, but the intentions were there. He carefully tore the tape off and pulled out a book. _How to Fail at Almost Everything and Still Win Big; Kind of the Story of My Life_. It was by Scott Adams. Preston immediately recognized the name. The author of the well-known _Dilbert_ comic strip.

"Sharon recommended it to me. I don't read so quick, so she loaded the .mp3 onto my player. I admit I didn't really listen to all of it, but what I heard made me think of you. So, yeah, this book made me think of you and I hope you like it."

Antoine looked positively embarrassed. Preston had no idea why. It wasn't a huge present, not something to feel self-conscious over. He flipped open the front cover. Written in Antoine's familiar and barely legible handwriting was a single line. "Preppy, you got this, I believe in you." It was signed with a simple sketch of a heart, and the initials AER.

Preston kept his face as neutral as possible. He wondered exactly what it meant. There were several things he wanted it to mean, but Antoine was, well, _Antoine_. With him, it might mean nothing at all.

"I was going to leave that on your desk. I forgot it here," Antoine mumbled awkwardly, still watching his show. He glanced over at Preston. "Too much bromance?"

Preston felt blood rushing to his cheeks. He turned his face away, and laughed shyly into his hand. "Uhm, no. Well, maybe. Jeeze, I don't know."

Antoine snickered. "Made you blush." He turned his attention back to the TV. "You know, I was going to give you a piece of my mind when I got back here. Read you the riot act about making me take care of your stupid lightbulbs… but then I figured ultimately, I did volunteer for it. So that's not really your fault. I mean, yeah you put the note out to Sharon to get it done asap… but whatever. You're the boss. I think I was probably mad at myself too for not remembering your book. Regardless, making you turn all red like that has been worth it." He slapped Preston's thigh affectionately. "Merry Christmas, right?"

"Merry Christmas, Antoine." _Oh, just wait till I show you the card I bought_ , Preston thought smugly. _Check and mate, Antoine_. He smiled to himself; glad he hadn't thrown it out after all. Two could play at that game. Merry Christmas, indeed.


	16. Chapter 16

Rhonda LeBlanc thought that work party would never leave. She sat in her car in the parking lot of the nuclear plant. Engine running to stay warm, the interior dark save for the dash lights and the orange glow of her cigarette. Slowly, the smoke filled the car. She waited, patiently.

She didn't have to wait long.

One by one, the lights in the administrative department winked out. Rhonda waited until Preston's little stooge, the pilot, left in his rattle-trap car. Once he was past the main gate, she pulled into her assigned parking space, and stepped out.

The bleak weather swept around her, and Rhonda pulled her soot black trenchcoat tighter. She snubbed out her cigarette in the ash tray at the door, swiped her ID badge, and let herself in.

The halls were dark, save for the red exit sign. As Rhonda walked, the lights flicked on. Motion sensors. She and Dimas had ordered them installed in all the main hallways. The respective departments, however, were on old-fashioned switches. Rhonda took the back stairwell up. She didn't want to risk running into Sharon or any of the holiday operation crew. One could never truly be alone at the nuclear plant. Even on Christmas, a skeleton crew of reactor operators and technicians, and their respective supervisors kept an ever vigilant watch. Periodically, security would sweep though. Roving guards, making sure nothing was amiss.

Rhonda didn't need to know the guards' schedules. They stayed mostly out of her way. Rhonda during normal business hours could be intimidating. After hours, she could be downright frightening.

It wasn't uncommon for her to come to the plant during off-time, especially after the normal working day. She found she got some of her best work done alone in the pleasant silence of her fishbowl. No phones ringing, no one popping in to ask questions.

Following Dimas' lead, Rhonda had an open-door policy, but sometimes it seemed people took that too literally. At times, the inflow of loyal if subservient employees hindered her. Rhonda, ever focused on her career, could hardly begrudge them the intrusions. She understood how people operated.

What she didn't care for was chaos and disorder.

Everything needed to follow a natural flow. "So it is," she muttered to herself as she unlocked her office and went in. A quick glance at the ceiling showed the lightbulbs had been swapped out. She examined her desk carefully. She expected it to be put back exactly where it had always been; and no foot prints to be found anywhere. Good.

Everything was as she left it. Antoine and his crew had done a professional job. They'd even swept the dust up afterwards.

Antoine, the pilot. The thorn in her side. He was Preston's guard dog, or possibly his security blanket. She'd never paid much attention to him before, but after their "discussion" in Preston's office the other month he'd been on her radar. Rhonda sighed and sat back in her chair. Once upon a time, she'd actually rather liked Antoine. His upbeat personality and his ability to work with nearly anyone made him a valuable asset to the company. She'd hoped he might settle down, become a little less bohemian as time went by. No such luck. Still, he was a damn fine pilot. She leaned back and wondered why on earth he'd chosen to ally himself with Preston. It made no sense to her.

Rhonda did not like things that didn't make sense.

When Dimas had been alive, it seemed only natural to expect Antoine and Preston to cross paths. What she hadn't expected was that their dynamic would continue after Dimas' death.

One day, Rhonda had gone down to Infrastructure and asked Sharon a simple question. _When did Mister Tucci send his pilot to you?_

Sharon, practically buried under the messy hoard she called an office poked her head up from a pile and shrugged. _Honestly, Ms. LeBlanc, he didn't._

 _No?_

Sharon shook her head. _No. He sent himself down here. I don't know why. But he works hard, and he's got more experience than half the people who apply, so I didn't see the harm_.

Rhonda thanked Sharon for her time. _Curiouser and curiouser_ , she thought. Why on earth would a highly specialized individual, on salary no less!, volunteer himself for the demanding and thankless job of maintenance? It didn't make sense. There was only one reason, and it wasn't even a very good one in Rhonda's eyes.

 _He's trying to protect Tucci. But from what? And why?_

Rhonda had decided it was high time to find out. Her Christmas present to herself: uninterrupted time in Preston's Executive Office looking for anything that might explain what was truly going on.

She assumed Preston locked his office at night. Fortunately, she had a master key. Dimas had given it to her over thirty years ago. It turned out she didn't need it. _What a naïve fool_ , Rhonda thought disdainfully. She opened the door and let herself in.

Clearly Preston hadn't decorated the office. The relaxing oceanic theme was not his style. The man was the sort who probably lived off motivational posters. She'd known of Preston since he first set foot in the plant as a timid little apple-polisher to entertain Dimas's whim. Preston seemed fairly adept with that at least. He made a fine assistant, Rhonda had to admit. On the flips side, unfortunately, she saw him as an abysmal CEO.

Preston Tucci was too inexperienced, too frail in Rhonda's opinion. She didn't expect him to measure up. He'd crash and burn, and take the plant with him. He had no idea how to conduct himself. He brought doubt and uncertainty to everything he did. Chaos too. This whole relationship with his pilot? It transcended mere professional boundaries. Despite what Antoine had said to her about how he'd always been this way, Rhonda could sense and undercurrent of familiarity between them that she was loath to have at her plant.

 _He'll undermine everything!_ Rhonda thought angrily as she opened the filing cabinets. _I haven't spent three decades of my life building a solid business just to watch some child ruin everything_. Rhonda leafed back through the papers. She wasn't sure what she was looking for, but she'd know it when she found it.

After nearly two hours, Rhonda hadn't uncovered anything aside from Dimas' private stash of scotch. She was about to give up when she noticed a single document sticking out from behind the rock glasses in Dimas' cabinet. Oddly out of place for everything else that fell neatly into line. The way things seemed untouched, it was as if Preston had never even bothered to go through the filing cabinets themselves.

Rhonda gently tugged the paper free. It was a shipping manifest, for national cargo on a major airline out of Albany. Nearly six thousand pounds of cargo. Though the destination had been blacked out, the date remained. Autumn of last year. The same time as the alleged "kid-napping" incident in Springfield.

She'd have to pull Dimas' travel logs, but it was too much to be coincidence. Three tons of cargo, distributed into three respective shipping containers… Rhonda grip in the paper tightened. There was only one thing of that weight that Dimas would be shipping.

Though Rhonda didn't have exact numbers, each one of their fuel assemblies weighed about fifteen hundred pounds. Dimas had been most proud about maintaining a proper number of spent fuel rods in his cooling ponds. He had abhorred the idea of so-called re-racking, stacking additional rods in where they were never intended to go.

 _The Nuclear Regulatory Commission authorized it_ , Rhonda had pointed out, attempting to talk him down from the rage he'd worked himself into one last afternoon.

 _The Nuclear Regulatory Commission is a pompus overblown government agency that wants to make everything look pretty for the public, and avoid the real issues._

Rhonda couldn't entirely disagree. Although Dimas' statement could apply to just about any government body, she reasoned. It was neither Rhonda's place, nor her interest, to judge. The government was like anything: a mixture of good and bad. As long as rules were followed, Rhonda didn't see the need to get involved.

Rhonda had never questioned it when Gary in Engineering had his crew arrange a transfer of spent rods from the reactors into the cooling ponds. Likewise, she never stopped to question exactly where the rods went after they'd sat for the several years required to be sufficiently "cool."

Dimas had played everything masterfully, Rhonda thought, sitting down at his desk. Preston's desk. Whichever. It would always be Thaddeus Dimas' desk to her.

She stared at the cargo manifest, willing it to reveal something more. Alas, the ratty piece of carbon-copy paper had already yielded its secrets. It was enough though.

"Business trip, my ass," she snarled to the empty room.

Clandestine transfer of nuclear waste was more like it. The incident in Springfield? Clearly no kidnapping attempt gone wrong. Thaddeus Dimas, and Montgomery Burns had been involved in something illegal; then it went pear-shaped. And that illegal thing had involved several tons of nuclear fuel assemblies.

 _Damn you, Tad_ , Rhonda muttered, thinking of Dimas. _Your lofty ideas got the better of you. If you hadn't been such an idealistic idiot, you'd still be alive. We wouldn't be here at the mercy of your untried personal assistant and his feeble attempts…_

Preston.

 _Preston!_ He had been there too! Not just there, but involved. And Antoine, the pilot!

Rhonda leapt to her feet, barking out a profanity she was glad no one could hear. "They know," she growled, eyes wide. An image of Antoine and Preston flashed through her mind: Preston, recovering from his bullet wound, and Antoine gamely defending him from prying eyes. "They both know and they've been playing me for a fool!"

No wonder, Rhonda decided, the pilot and Preston had latched on to each other like illicit lovers. They were partners in crime, both carrying the same secret; the real reason behind Dimas' death. They knew the truth, and they were covering for each other every step of the way.

 _Well_ , Rhonda thought, settling herself, _two can play at that game._

Carefully, Rhonda tucked the manifest into her hip pocket. They might be young and reckless. She was patient. If what she surmised was true, sooner or later they'd be going back to Springfield. And when they did, Rhonda chuckled, rubbing her hands together, she'd be right behind.

* * *

Charles Montgomery Burns picked up his knight, and moved the small piece beyond his unbroken wall of pawns. "King's knight opening," he explained quietly, raising his eyes to Smithers.

The two men sat in Burns' private study, a marble chessboard on the table between them. A fire roared in the hearth, throwing enough heat to ward off the chill of the storm outside. Wind howled against the leaded panes of glass in the window, driving snow in sweeping drifts. The trees beyond swayed and bowed, as if surrendering to the gale. Occasionally harder snow, little ice pellets would streak across the glass with a rattle.

Burns interlaced his fingers and dropped his chin into them. Smithers was new to chess, but he was proving to be a quick study. Who knew: in time, Smithers might prove to be a worthy opponent indeed. They'd celebrated a small and intimate Christmas, an exchange of gifts early in the morning; though in Burns' mind the best gift was being able to wake up next to his beloved. It was strange, Burns mused. All the money in the world, and yet that simple pleasure was one of the best.

Well, with Smithers anyhow.

Outside of that, money and power held quite a prominent place in Monty Burns' list of priorities. Waylon Smithers was the exception, not the rule. In all other walks, Burns was still the gleefully malevolent mogul he'd always been.

The chess board had been one such simple gift between them. The pieces were elegantly hand-carved out of red and white botticino marble. Intricately sculpted, down to the smallest details. The board made of the same red and white stone, and framed with a mahogany border. Burns had it imported from Italy; a gift for Smithers that gave them yet another reason to spend time together.

"The trick is, my boy, to control the center of the board." Burns' blue eyes looked almost green in the firelight. He eyed Smithers with a fierce intensity.

Smithers studied the board. He finally decided on the pawn in front of his king, and moved it two spaces forward. A traditional opening, Burns noted. Not exciting, but a solid choice. It afforded them both several options. There were few things Burns enjoyed better than a game of chess while discussing business.

"Have you done _anything_ with that Tucci boy yet?" Burns asked. He didn't hesitate as he moved one of his own pawns two spaces forward.

Smithers shook his head. "Done anything? No. But it's not that I've done nothing." He ran his finger over his row of pawns, thinking.

Burns waited patiently. This was not a timed game. They had all night.

Outside, the wind rose to a roaring howl against the stone corners of Burns Manor, as if demanding attention. Burns and Smithers both ignored it. "It was a night not entirely dissimilar to this that I first showed you your father's room, was it not?" Burns asked.

"Was it winter?" Smithers asked, moving a knight out to guard his pawn.

Burns rolled his shoulders. "If it wasn't out there, it definitely was inside," he replied cryptically. He studied the chessboard, hands still folded under his chin. No sense in rushing. He'd make his move when he was ready. Smithers looked as if he were on the verge of speaking further, and Burns didn't want to interrupt. Over a game of chess, Smithers could be very forthcoming.

As usual, Burns' assessment of his partner proved correct.

Smithers kept his eyes on the board as he spoke. "I did talk to him on the phone again the other week. They had a benefit ball or something in the city. There was a blurb about it online. I figured it was time to try and shake an answer out of him." Smithers paused. "I'm not sure I was successful."

Burns selected his bishop, and deftly moved it through the gap made by his pawn. The center of the board was now his. A classic Italian opening. Time to see what Smithers would do with one of the oldest set-ups in history of the game.

"When I spoke to him, he said he was going to re-rack for the next swap out, and make a decision later on."

Burns snorted. "The boy's a fool. One or two assemblies, no one notices. Get more than that, and it becomes a nightmare in logistics."

Smithers moved a pawn forward a single space. Burns tried not to let his face reveal emotion. It wasn't a move he would've made. What was Smithers up to?

"It will be three years almost before he needs to refuel the second reactor. I was there for the last swap out. Three years is a long time. He may yet change his mind."  
"That's pure malarkey. Three years is inconsequential against the life of a man. A thimble in the ocean. A miniscule hiccup in the grand scheme of things." He quickly brought out his second knight. "Why, what could ever happen in a mere three years?"

Smithers raised his eyes shrewdly. "A man can build a nuclear power plant, fall in love, save a city." Without hesitation, he moved a different pawn forward. Again, only one space. He gave Burns a calculating smile.

C. Montgomery Burns paused, taken back by Smithers' audacity. He looked away from his brown-eyed former assistant, and stared into the fire. So many memories. So much he couldn't unsee. Once upon a time he would've considered himself consigned to the fires of hell. Now, instead of balefire, he saw hearthfire. Home, safety. Memories without the pain. A glow that mirrored the flame burning in his heart.

"Well, yes. I suppose _that_ ," he murmured.

"Three years can be a lifetime," Smithers continued. "So Preston wants to do things his way. So what? If you're worried about us, don't be. I can handle it."

Burns tapped his fingers against his cheek. "As you said, my dear, there is time."

"'Unto each day the evil thereof,' Monty. I'll keep a close eye on Preston, and see what he does." Smithers tapped the board gently. "Your move."

"Yes, yes, I was getting to that," Burns snapped. He gave Smithers a one-sided smile. "You wouldn't want to rush a fragile old man now would you, Waylon?"

Smithers returned the smirk. "I would never do that. If I see any fragile old men around here, I'll be sure to give them plenty of time. Wily silver foxes though? Well, that's a different matter. Your move, _old_ friend."


	17. Chapter 17

February was typically a rough month for Preston; but not this year. The idea of the company park, and of his "green initiative" excited him. Preston hadn't felt this inspired since graduate school.

It was easy to be motivated under the firm yolk of a task master like Dimas; more difficult to take the reins as a leader. There seemed to be so much that needed to be done.

Having Rigel on board had made all the difference. She had an uncanny knack for sorting workloads into various priority levels. She never seemed overwhelmed. When she'd first started, Preston had been worried about putting too much on her plate. Now it seemed, the more he asked, the happier she was. Rigel had expressed a particular fondness for difficult tasks.

 _Sir, my sister used to joke that the more difficult a task was, the quicker I got it done_ , Rigel replied when he'd asked her to track down a particularly elusive piece of information.

In addition to Rigel's competence, Rhonda had been thankfully off his back lately too. It gave him space to breathe. Though winter limited some of his plans, the adjacent lot next to the power plant could still undergo a preliminary survey for site use.

Of course, there would be forms to file, applications, the whole nine yards. He'd already contacted the New York State Department of Environmental Conservation to see what the land had been designated as so many years ago. He'd learned there was something called an Environmental Impact Assessment that would need to be filed once the park plans were drafted up.

At Rigel's suggestions, in addition to the company newsletter, he'd started sending out a personal memo with it. She'd suggested it could help him get some publicity within the company. Though everyone knew who he was, they still worked and thought under the shadow of Thaddeus Dimas.

Once upon a time, a phrase had been coined. "Dimas willing."

 _We'll get this request approved, Dimas willing._

Rigel overheard it, and brought it to Preston's attention _. Mister Tucci, you might want to start getting your name out into the company. They still think of this as Dimas' plant. What about some little addition to the newsletter? A 'from the President' blurb at the beginning or something?_

Preston thought that was a brilliant idea. He'd then asked Rigel how she thought of that.

 _Once I considered going into political campaign management_ , she explained. _Except once I started down that path, I found I had very little interest in political scheming. This,_ she gestured to her projects, _is just as interesting, and much more honest_.

When the January newsletter went out, Preston included his personal memo. He'd never actually even introduced himself to his employees in the newsletter. There had been an article about him, but not in his own words. At Rigel's suggestion, he kept it short and positive. He talked about how employee health and wellness (physical and emotional) was important to him. At the end, he included a link to the online fitness survey.

Out of the nearly one thousand employees, a significant number had actually responded to the survey. Five hundred or so. It wasn't an ideal turn out, but Rigel pointed out from a technical standpoint, fifty percent response was much better than typically expected.

 _Why?_ asked Preston as they waited for the polling agency to send them a report. _What's the typical percentage?_

Rigel shrugged as she brought him a mug of tea. _Something around eighteen to twenty percent, I believe, sir. I can find out for certain if you need me to_.

Preston declined her offer. He didn't need to know. It did make him feel better about their reply figures. The general response from the employees was positive towards the idea of a fitness and recreation facility on site. Several suggested including a small work out center at the plant itself. Preston added that to his ever growing list of ideas.

Since the Rotary International fundraiser, Preston had attended several other events in town in January. When the Lowry Gallery, an modest art museum downtown announced the opening of a new wing, Preston pulled a small amount from the Nuclear Plant's "disposable funds" budget, and appeared in person to make a donation.

He'd contacted the gallery president, Charles Cosgrove, in advance of course. It was an event staged by both of them to look spontaneous. Preston arrived in his Cadillac, which had been coincidentally polished and detailed the day before, and met Cosgrove. In front of the press, Preston gave his little rehearsed speech about the importance of art and culture in modern society. At the conclusion he passed the envelope over and stated grandly: _The Plateau City Nuclear Generating Station family is proud to support the Lowry Gallery and all they do for the arts in our cliff-side river city_.

Flowery words, yes; and perhaps a bit ostentatious, but they got the job done. Cosgrove made Preston the guest of honor for the remainder of the event. The reporters and their camera crews followed. Preston put on his mask of confidence; it got easier each time. He repeated Antoine's little mantra until he almost believed it himself. _I'm a natural, I'm unique, and the camera loves me_. He smiled gracefully when the asked for a statement and gave them something politely brief to pen down. _Less is more with the press_ , Rigel had insisted on reminding him before he left.

Yes, Preston had to admit, things had been going quiet well for him lately.

He was beginning to think perhaps his life was finally normalizing. It was a wonderful feeling.

* * *

Preston's reflection was interrupted by a knock at the door. Without waiting for him to even reply, the door opened and Antoine bounded in. He wore his ragged Carhartt jacket partially unzipped, a black knit cap pulled down to his eyes, and heavy work boots still damp from snow. Rigel gave him an annoyed look, and stalked off to her office, leaving the door cracked open.

Though Preston could tell whatever animosity between them had settled down, it was clear Rigel found Antoine's nature a bit hard to swallow at times. Especially the trotting un unannounced. She and Preston both had tried to break Antoine of that habit. It had improved, but it still wasn't perfect.

The blue-haired man was gregarious and impulsive.

"Check it out, Prep- Mister Tucci! You made the cover of the _Plateau City Review!_ " He pranced over to Preston's desk, a glossy magazine held aloft.

"The society pages?" Preston asked, bemused. He held out his hand and Antoine dropped the magazine in it.

Antoine shifted his weight from foot to foot lightly despite the fact he was wearing steel-toes boots. The man must be part jungle cat, or something, Preston thought with amusement. It was almost endearing, in an awkward in-your-face sort of way. Like a jungle cat without boundaries.

Preston turned the magazine over and examined the front page. It was a fantastic photo of him, the light caught just right in his soulful brown eyes, his hair tousled in a way that could almost be described as seductive. It must've been caught with a telephoto lens or something, he definitely did not remember posing for this. Beneath the title were the words: "Preston Tucci; Plateau City's Most Eligible Bachelor. Who is this man, and why has he been hidden for so long? Turn to page 28 to find out more."

Preston blushed a deep scarlet. "Oh sweet Jesus," he moaned putting his head in his hands. Tell me no one's seen this yet?"

Antoine danced lightly about. "Are you kidding me? That's the copy from the break room!"

Preston, torn between being acutely embarrassed and extremely proud rolled the magazine into a tight tube. "Is it now? Well, they're not getting it back."

"Can I have it then?" Antoine jabbed a hand forward.

"NO!" Preston swatted Antoine's hand away. "You're probably the one who put it there in the first place. I'm keeping this!"

Antoine folded his arms across his chest and tucked his hands into the open portion of his jacket. "Fine," he replied smugly. "That's fine…" He gave Preston a wink.

Before Preston could even begin to object, Antoine pulled out a stack of identical magazines copies from his jacket. "Because I got more!" He held them up admiringly. "I'm thinking of framing this one."

Preston leapt to his feet. He tried with all his might to keep his expression serious, but his tone was failing him. "You give those here right now!"

Antoine twirled just out of reach. "Hey, freedom of the press, _baby_!" He pantomimed kissing the cover and winked again. "Congrats on the title, Mister Eligible." He flashed Preston a peace sign, and capered out, leaving Preston alone with the magazine.

Preston quickly dropped it into a desk drawer and tried to regain his composure.

Rigel, who had overheard everything peeked her head out from her office.

Preston, still awash in aggravated amusement looked over at her. "Is there anything I can help you with, Miss Vought," he asked, trying to look composed.

"Your tea's gone cold."

Preston looked down at his mug. He allowed Rigel to put it in the microwave. Waited patiently while it heated. "Sir, may I have permission to speak freely?"

"You always do, Rigel; except when there's company. I appreciate candor."

Rigel indicated the door Antoine had loped through several minutes before. "He's allowed quite a few liberties, isn't he."

Preston shrugged. "It's not my doing to be sure. Mister Dimas used to let him get away with too much, and though he's more settled now, it doesn't bother me most days. It's easier to ignore him than control him." Preston ran a thumb along his jaw thoughtfully. His eyes focused on the photo of the curling wave, remembering their vacation; Antoine gamboling about in the salt water like some rare, blue seal.

"Antoine does whatever I need him to, and he keeps himself professional at company venues. He's good with people, in his own peculiar way; seems to have a knack for drawing people together." Preston's mind wandered.

"Back before I became CEO, shortly after I'd just started, I was working late one night. I still used your office. He came barging in like some wild animal. The next thing I know he's grabbing me by the arm and telling me I'm joining him and 'the gang' for pizza and drinks. It wasn't even an invitation. He wouldn't have taken 'no' for an answer. It was easier just to go with him even though I didn't want to."

"And?" Rigel asked.

Preston shrugged. "So, I went, and I found myself having a great time. He introduced me to some of the department heads. It became a regular little gathering for me."

Rigel brought tea over. Preston blew on the surface to cool it, then took a careful sip. Perfect temperature. "It was nice, those evenings," Preston remarked thoughtfully. "I miss them."

Rigel said nothing, merely listened. Preston had no doubt that she was memorizing everything he told her. She had a keen mind, even if she didn't draw attention to it. Her memory amazed him. He'd always prided himself on his recall. Rigel was equally adept. It made life easier for him, only having to give her an instruction once. She also had been slowly learning his likes and dislikes, and adjusting things accordingly. She made an excellent personal assistant.

"Of course," Preston added, trying to change the tone, "it would hardly be appropriate for me to do that these days; of course."

Rigel pursed her lips thoughtfully. "There are, of course many reasons not to engage your employees out of work, sir. There are, however, benefits as well; especially if it were pre-existing."

Preston snorted. "It's fraternization."

Rigel raised her eyebrows. "Not if you conveniently happened to be there by yourself at a time they just happened to show up. Then, sir, it's coincidence."

Preston raised his eyes to hers, realization blossoming in his mind. What she said, it was still a risk, but technically true. He had to admit he'd been isolated too long. Even his therapist had suggested getting out and meeting people. Preston hadn't had the motivation to make time. He didn't want new strangers. He wanted his old _friends_.

The existing management clique hadn't, eh, clicked with him despite his attempts to join in. Preston was too young, too inexperienced. He didn't have decades of leadership under his belt, he wasn't married and raising the American dream of two kids in a suburban home. He had no interest in any kids for that matter. Most of the crew at that level was married, set in their ways, trying to one-up each other between work and family status. Though initially he'd tried to be social, it was a good ol' boy's (and girl's) club that excluded a newcomer like him.

Preston drummed his fingertips against his mouth, debating. Finally, he reached a decision. "Rigel?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Contact Radson. Tell him to find out when the 'old gang' is getting together next, and have him see about inviting himself along." Preston affording himself a satisfied smile and leaned back in his chair. Once Rigel left the room, he fished out the magazine Antoine had left. It really was a good picture, he had to admit. Now all he needed was a decent photo of Antoine someday. Preston chuckled to himself, feeling every inch the executive he was. He bowed his head, pulled out the latest folio, and poured himself into his work.

* * *

Antoine sat at the familiar table of the cowboy themed bar-and-grill he used to frequent. The Lucky Lady. The food was good, the drinks were good, the company was what he truly came for. He pushed back his chair and grinned at no one in particular. As usual, he'd arrived first. Antoine never saw a reason to change at the plant. He wore his heavy boots, his increasingly frayed jacket, and classic work pants.

Preston sat at the bar, pretending to be invisible. It was all part of their plan.

Antoine was happy to be here again. Ever since The Incident, Preston had been terribly withdrawn. Antoine had been worried. He saw how much Preston had been suffering inside, and there was nothing he could do to help. Slowly though, Preston was coming around. It was true what they said, emotional scars took longest to heal. Preston wasn't even sure why it had bothered Preston so much; but that wasn't something they talked about.

 _I'm a guy, Preppy. I'm not good at sitting around and talking about feelings_ , Antoine admitted _. I mean, if the feeling's hunger, I'm all over that. But man, I don't even know how I can help, you know?_

Preston had put a hand on Antoine's shoulder _. Just keep being my friend. That's what I need_.

Antoine put his own hand over Preston's. _Yeah. I'm not going anywhere, Prep_ , he'd replied reassuringly.

Now, they were back at their familiar restaurant, waiting for the familiar crew. Antoine, of course, then there was Sharon as well. Gary, the chief at Engineering said he'd be along shortly. Ruby from accounting? She'd be there. Maybe a few other people. Oh, and Rigel. Antoine invited her too. _You can't know about it and not come_ , he announced into the phone. _That's not how we roll_.

He put in an order for a pizza, half meat and half veggies, then sat back to wait.

One by one, the familiar faces trickled in through the crowd. Antoine beamed, and waved.

"As if we couldn't recognize you by your hair," Ruby laughed. She dropped into a seat next to him. Gary came next, middle-aged and friendly-faced. He pulled up a chair across from Antoine and Ruby. Sharon, and surprisingly Stewart arrived next, with Rigel in tow.

When Stewart made a move to sit next to Antoine, Sharon grabbed his arm and pulled him into an empty chair at the end next to her and Rigel. "He won't let you sit there," Sharon explained to a confused Stewart.

"Aww shucks," Antoine replied, reddening a little.

Sharon laughed and clapped her hands together. "Look at that, he's actually blushing."

"I am not!" Antoine denied, though he could feel his face flushing even more.

"Don't worry about that. It's still not as good as the time you tried asking Jaime for her phone number," Sharon replied, gesturing with her thumb towards the bartender.

They all followed Sharon's gesture, curious to see if Jaime had somehow heard.

"I didn't even know you could make a martini with the word 'no' written on an olive," Antoine muttered, though no one appeared to notice.

"Hey," Ruby called out, recognizing a familiar and deliberately placed figure, "Preston!" She waved and gestured him over. "I didn't know you were already here. Come join us."

Preston, acting as nonchalant as he could, agreed. He glanced at the full table, then chose the only empty seat: the one next to Antoine.

"You make it look as if you didn't have a choice, Preppy."

Preston regarded his friend with a dash of his old conceit. "I didn't."

"So much the better," Antoine beamed. He draped his arm around the back of Preston's chair as he had done a dozen if not a hundred times before. "We got a new face here tonight," he added, indicating Rigel. "Rigel Vought. Prefers 'Riley' if y'all care to know. She's Preppy's new assistant because apparently I'm a better wrench monkey than a day planner."

Gary took a sip of his beer. "So that's how you got demoted, eh?"

"Hey!" barked Sharon and Antoine in unison, both equally offended.

"I'll have you know, Gary, that working in Infrastructure is not a demotion."

Gary held up his hands. "Kidding, kidding."

Sharon gave him a warning gesture with her fork. "Good thing you're over there tonight." She grinned. "So, Rigel, welcome to the group. Tell us a little about yourself."

* * *

Rigel "Riley" Vought had to admit the gathering was different than she'd expected. She wasn't sure exactly what to anticipate, but it hadn't been this. The casual atmosphere felt more like a family dinner than a sit-down of coworkers. It reminded her of her own upbringing, and she found herself hit with an unexpected wave of homesickness.

"I grew up near Ithaca, New York," she began.

Rigel filled them in on her childhood, raised and homeschooled for the first few years in a walled-off hippy commune. She explained how everyone lived and worked together, did chores for the community; how everything in essence belonged to everyone. There was one building with electrical power. That was used for the freezers and laundromat. There was a leadership council, but it wasn't authoritarian. Most of their food came from the commune and trades with other farmers. "We grew corn, soybeans. We had a vineyard and even made wine," Rigel recalled. The wine had been sold to tourists visiting the area, and thirsty college kids from Cornell.

Rigel told them about her parents, her brother and sister. She was the proverbial middle child, born at night. "My sister's name is Storm, my brother's is River. My parents named us after the first thing they saw after we were born." Rigel helped herself to a slice of pizza from the 'meat' side of the pie.

"Not 'Star?,'" Stewart asked, curious.

"Well, they considered that, but my father thought it sounded too plain." She smiled at him. "So Rigel it is. I suppose it's not such a bad name. Here at least, no one's made fun of it yet."  
Gary raised his eyes. "Why would we?"

"Once I started going to a public highschool I got teased for it. One of my homeroom teachers actually got in an argument with me, saying I was pronouncing my own name wrong. She insisted it was 'rye-GULL' and refused to change her stance."

Gary made a face. "That's hardly appropriate. If someone tried that with my daughter, I'd give them a very stern talking to."

Rigel rolled her shoulder. "I'm sure, as you can imagine, my parents weren't big on conflict."

"So how did you wind up here?" Ruby asked, genuinely curious.

Rigel explained that it was as much an act of rebellion as anything. She originally majored in politic science: campaign management. However, she quickly decided she didn't like the political rubbish and deceit that seemed part and parcel of the deal.

"A lot of the same skills transferred over into this field, and since I prefer to work for one person instead of a faceless organization, I decided I wanted to be a personal assistant." She glanced at Preston casually. "It can be hard, but it can have its glamorous moments too. I enjoy it."

As the questions largely trickled off, Rigel was able to eat instead of chat for a spell. She wondered how Storm and River were doing. When she left, neither of them had expressed any desire to leave the commune. _This is your home_ , River said stoically, leaning on the fence. _This is your family. You're really going to walk away from us?_

Rigel watched Antoine teasing Stewart about something work related.

 _Plateau City is my home now_ , Rigel thought decisively. _And these people, I guess they're my family now_. She regarded the little group carefully. A tad unorthodox, especially the way her boss was arguing with Antoine in a way that seemed more like they were equals than supervisor and employee. Rigel reasoned it probably worked for them. It explained their dynamic at work. Rigel was also able to see how much both strived to keep everything professional as possible during the work day.

When she'd first met Antoine, she'd thought him irreverent and disrespectful to her boss. Rigel now saw how deep their friendship went; how detached they actually were at the plant. It was something she'd have to think about later.

Friendships, indeed _all_ relationships, fascinated Rigel.

In listening to the conversation, she learned some of the comraderies at the table had been going steadily for nearly a decade. She was a newcomer, and Stewart was relatively new himself, but it seemed like a good balance. No one might have been related, but at this moment, they were a family.


	18. Chapter 18

Waylon Smithers expected Burns to be temperamental in March. He known that since the beginning of working with the man. He hadn't known, until only a few short years ago why. Finally, after all the time they'd worked shoulder to shoulder, Burns confessed the reason.

In March, many decades ago when the Springfield power plant had recently come online, there was a mishap with the cooling rods. The reactor started to overheat at an alarming rate. Smithers' father, Waylon Sr., had manually lowered the rods, exposing himself to a fatal dose of radiation in the process.

Burns had been there, witnessed the entire event. That day had shaken him to his core, leaving a crisscross of wounds across the man's psyche that had been far too slow to heal. It wasn't until recent years that he'd finally spoken about it. All of it.

Smithers had taken his own time to come to terms with the implications, and what it meant for him and Burns.

Despite Burns' confession, Smithers expecting this March to be no different.

How surprised he was when Burns had not lapsed into his usual despondency. It was a welcome from the typical gloom that befell the manor early each spring.

Even at work Burns' good mood continued. He hadn't set the hounds on anyone in nearly a month. Give it another week or so, and Smithers was quite sure that would be a new personal record for Burns.

Perhaps also the fact they'd recently passed an inspection without the usual concealments and bribes had something to do with Burns' upbeat attitude.

Since his temporary assignment in Plateau City, an incident that had left Burns begging him to return as a partner instead of a lackey, Smithers felt invigorated. He bore down with relentless determination to overhaul the plant, starting with the major issues first, and working through down to the tiniest ones. He wasn't finished, not by a long run, but he felt a sense of accomplishment nonetheless. Slowly but steadily, maintenance issues that Burns had ignored for so long were finally getting resolved. It would be a long road, Smithers knew.

One could hardly fix forty years of problems in a few short seasons.

There had been one day when he was in his office that stood out in his mind. Montgomery Burns came in, expression guarded, and deftly pulled a sheet of paper out from Smithers' hands: a spreadsheet of repairs Smithers had ordered, and the timeline he expected them to be completed by. A few other items, such as budget and manning had also been part of Smithers' calculations.

Burns read over the document carefully, keen eyes examining every detail.

He didn't say much. Sometimes Burns could be particularly tight-lipped. He'd only nodded his approval and quietly uttered five words: _Your father would be proud_.

It was all Smithers needed to hear. He glanced at the photo on his desk, one he'd found at the manor and framed. Two figures, now both familiar, looked up at him: Burns and his father. The two men stood, arm in arm in front of a marble fireplace at the manor. Held between them was a tiny infant swaddled in a lambskin blanket. Waylon Jr. Him.

Smithers gently rested his finger on the picture.

When Burns had first told Smithers about the relationship he and Smithers' father had shared, the younger Smithers found himself upset and confused. Maybe even a bit jealous of the father he never knew. Initially Smithers had resented his father the relationship he'd shared with Burns. Then he'd resented Burns for pushing him to be more like his father. _I'm not my father, and I'm not you either_ , Smithers had declared in frustration when Burns had flown out to Albany to see him. _You can't make me what I'm not_.

Finally though, he and Burns had reached an understanding. Smithers would always be who he was, Waylon Joseph Smithers Junior. And Burns would always be himself: Charles Montgomery Burns. In that moment of understanding everything changed. The unspoken weight from the memory of Waylon Sr. was lifted gently from both their shoulders.

Smithers no longer wondered about the man, nor did he resent him. If anything, he felt proud to be Waylon Sr.'s son. Although his time with his father had been a few short months, and he didn't remember any of it, Burns delicately filled in the missing details. Smithers had grown to feel a sort of kinship to the man.

 _Perhaps_ , he thought as he reorganized the maintenance logs and planned an installation of a proper lift system above their cooling ponds, _I am my father's son after all._

* * *

Charles Montgomery Burns found time flying by too quickly. It was March before he realized it, and he still hadn't even figured out what he was going to wear next month. Springfield was generally quite warm in April.

Finally, Burns gave up and hired an event planner to help handle the logistics. Lord knew planning a wedding was not something he had any skill in. And Smithers? The man had been too busy with the plant lately to tackle such an enterprise.

He and Smithers had driven out to Shelbyville to meet with the event planner, a dark haired woman named Stella. She had a vivacious personality, and seemed utterly delighted to arrange a small and intimate affair at Burns Manor.

As they drove home, Burns had leaned over to Smithers and asked: _Don't we know her from somewhere? She seems terribly familiar to me_.

Smithers shook his head, neither the name nor the face rang any bells; and Burns let the matter slide.


	19. Chapter 19

"I bought tickets for the flight to Springfield," Preston announced to Antoine over lunch at the Plateau City plant. Recently, they'd returned to their old habit of sharing meals together. Rigel didn't seem to care one way or the other, and Preston enjoyed having someone to talk to.

Antoine sat on the edge of Preston's desk, wolfing down a huge but delicious looking burger he'd gotten somewhere. He had a large box of fries he'd slid to the middle of the desk for both of them. Preston was eating a peanut butter sandwich he'd brought from home.

"I thought you should know," Preston said between bites, "that Miss Vought will be accompanying us."

Antoine swallowed the large bite he'd just taken and made a face. "Why?"

"I have some business to address with Waylon, and I just felt it better to bring her along."

"Okay, that's fine," Antoine shrugged. "So where are we staying?"

"Mister Burns is fielding our lodgings," Preston replied. "We'll explain more later."

Antoine took a bite of the sandwich Preston had decided to call 'heart-attack on a bun' and chewed thoughtfully. "Have you, ah, considered the implications of that?"

Preston shook his head. "What? We'll have separate rooms."

Antoine's face fell slightly. "Oh," he muttered, head down.

Preston reached out and gave Antoine a playful jab in the ribs. "I'm kidding, Antoine! Jeeze, can't I be the one to make a joke once in a while."

The blue-haired man's face lit up with realization. "A joke? Absolutely. I thought you were serious for a moment there. Humor is out of character for you."

Preston shrugged. "Maybe I'm just feeling better."

"Well it's 'bout time for that, Preppy." He grinned and shoved Preston affectionately. "So, what day are we all flying out?"

Preston glanced at his desk calendar. "April sixteenth. The wedding's not till the eighteenth, then we'll be heading home on the twentieth, first thing in the morning."

Antoine indicated his approval. "That sounds good and all. Why so long though?"

"I want to see the Springfield plant, get a feel for how they do things there. I also have a bit of time before the final inspection for the company park. It's a good thing we were able to write this into the health insurance program. It'll cut some of the premium costs. You know those were going to go up this year, right?"

"Don't they always?" Antoine asked.

Preston shook his head. "Not like this. That risk assessment questionnaire, the one in the newsletter, the one I had to force _you_ to respond to…"

Antoine looked sheepish and shrugged.

Preston continued. "Well, anyhow, with a few changes that the employees actually seem okay with, we'll be able to keep the rise in expenses from hitting out employees too hard. There's actually going to be a kick-back, once we have the park and fitness center on site. Employees who use the recreation facilities, or quit smoking, or _start eating healthier_ , can be eligible for funds back from the insurance company for every year they don't have a health-related illness."

"Is that legal?" Antoine asked, curious.

Preston gestured to a stack of documents. "It's a new government program. We're not the only company eligible for it. Kind of a beta test if you will, to see if the idea catches on." Preston watched Antoine finish his burger and reach for a handful of fries.

"Did you hear that last part?"  
"About the idea catching on?"

Preston shook his head. "No. About eating healthier."

Antoine gave Preston a smile that was almost condescending in itself. "Prep, don't worry about what I eat. I'm happy with myself. You still haven't put meat back on your bones yet. Once you're back up to where you used to be, then you can harass me. Maybe." Antoine ate a few fries, and washed them down with some cola from a bottle.

"How have you been doing, anyhow? You seem better? I know I should know, but sometimes I probably don't ask enough."

Preston mulled the answer over thoughtfully before replying. "It's been easier now that things are coming together here. I don't know what finally got Rhonda off my case, but it's made everything so much easier for me now that she's not lurking around."

* * *

Rhonda LeBlanc sat at her computer. She'd set up a program to scan through employee emails. It was all perfectly legal. The phrase "consent to monitoring" was part of each employees' contract, be they hourly or salary.

No one was exempt from "Ma Proton's" watchful eye.

She had been heavily dismayed by the performance of Rigel Vought as of late. If anything, it appeared the young assistant had turned traitor, and was now supporting Preston and his little groupies. _Well, no matter_ , Rhonda thought as her fingers flew over the keyboard. All she had to do was wait.

There came a soft _ping_ from one of the computer monitors on her desk. Her search had found something. She'd entered two queries: the phrases "North Tacoma" and "Springfield" respectively. Both had come back with positive hits.

Her patience had paid off. Young Preston Tucci had made a time request to travel to Springfield, North Tacoma later this month. So had Antoine Radson. And so had Rigel Vought. Little treacherous whelp, Rhonda thought angrily, staring at the lists. They all had tickets, they were all flying coach for that matter. Going to Springfield.

Rhonda threw the flight number into her database and came back with a list of similar flights. Two can play at that game, she thought wickedly. Rhonda quickly submitted for time off, authorized it herself, and made plans to follow them. Whatever they were up to, it would do them no good. She glanced at the crumpled manifest, the several thousand pound cargo that Dimas had sent to Springfield less than a day before his death.

 _I'll get to the bottom of this, once and for all._

This was even better than she hoped. Three little birds, all in one net. Rhonda congratulated herself on her cleverness, and smiled with malicious delight.


	20. Chapter 20

Rigel sat between Preston and Antoine, feeling mildly crammed in between the two men. There had been a passive-aggressive arm-wrestling match between her and Antoine for control of the arm rest. Eventually she won. The plane slowly pushed back from the gate, and Preston sighed quietly. It seemed easy, in theory, to fly out for Springfield. Now that he was on the plane however, the old fear was beginning to gnaw at his bones. He closed his eyes, and did several deep breathing exercises. They helped, but not by much.

Antoine was watching the flight attendant giving the typical safety spiel with rapt attention.

Rigel glanced over at him. "Mister Tucci," she asked. "What exactly are we doing again?"

Preston flipped through a SkyGalleria magazine. "I an associate, a friend more aptly, named Waylon Smithers. He and his business partner run a nuclear power plant in Springfield. Though we're primarily going out for pleasure, I need to spend some time with him going over procedures and getting a bit more insight on how to truly maximize success of our plant back home."

Antoine leaned in. "Notice he said 'our plant.' That means you too, Riley. Cuz we're all like a family, and everyone who works there is part of it." He grinned broadly.

Preston made a shooing gesture. "Go watch the pretty flight attendant," he muttered.

Antoine folded his arms across his chest, and did just that.

Preston returned his attention to Rigel. "Waylon Smithers is a partner in Burns Worldwide Consolidated. Are you familiar with that company?"

Rigel's brow furrowed as she sifted through the files in her mind. "A Fortune Five Hundred company, right? That's the one who sent you the package, shortly after I arrived. The same group you told me to always patch through when they call."

Preston nodded, impressed. "You don't miss a beat, do you Miss Vought."

She regarded him neutrally. "It's my job to be attentive, sir."

The flight attendant had finished her speech. The pilot's voice cracked through the intercom, instructing the flight attendants to prepare for takeoff. Preston clutched the armrests of his seat anxiously, then hastily let go before anyone noticed. As the engines cycled up from a dull rumble to a deep whine, Preston felt his stomach drop. "I immediately regret my decision," he muttered as the plane hurtled down the runway, gathering speed. Fortunately, his soft voice was lost in the roar of the engines.

He kept his eyes focused straight ahead, and tried to appear relaxed.

* * *

Several thousand feet later, the captain granted permission to use approved electronic devices. Rigel reached into the carry-on bag at her feet and pulled out a familiar leather case. Preston's former tablet, now hers. She unfolded the tray table from the seat in front of her, and set the tablet up on its little kickstand. Rigel pulled a pair of earbuds from her pocket, and plugged them into the device.

A few swipes and she had a movie playing.

Antoine kept leaning his blue head over to watch the movie, his hair tickling her face. After several moments, she glared at him. "Do you mind?" she asked, pulling an earbud from her ear.

Antoine shook his head. "Not at all. I love _Lilo and Stitch_."

Preston, who had been trying to nap against the window opened an eye. "Come again?" he asked sleepily.

" _Lilo and Stitch_. Riley's watching _Lilo and Stitch_!"

Preston made a confused gesture with his hands. "What's that?"

Both Rigel and Antoine stared at him, mouths agape. "You've never heard of _Lilo and Stitch_?" Antoine gasped.

Preston shrugged. "Should I have?"

"Yes," Antoine replied vehemently. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his own set of earbuds. "Here, you need these more than I do." He passed them and a splitter over the Preston. The perplexed CEO carefully plugged his ear buds in. "You had a deprived childhood, _Mister Tucci_ ," Antoine remarked smugly. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

For the next ninety minutes or so, Preston found himself refreshingly distracted from his own mind by a both comedic and sentimental animated tale about a small blue alien and a lonely little girl who befriended him.

Preston had to admit, he never watched much in the way of television growing up. His parents had a strict limit on TV, and things like animated movies weren't considered approved media. He'd been able to watch a few old Bugs Bunny cartoons now and then. His housekeeper thought it her duty to spoil him on occasion, and he was grateful for it.

After _Lilo and Stitch_ ended, Rigel loaded a second movie. Another Disney story, this one titled _Treasure Planet_. The story was familiar to Preston: a retelling of the classic by Robert Louis Stevenson. Preston knew the story quite well. Reading had always been encouraged in the Tucci household, especially of the classics. The story closely followed _Treasure Island_ , presented in a world of science fiction. Preston watched in rapt attention.

They'd just finished the movie when the pilot's voice came over the cabin speakers, announcing the initial descent into Springfield.

Preston felt the familiar anxiety claw at his ribs. He took another slow, deep breath. He closed his eyes, and replayed the movies in his head. Anything to keep the old memories from his mind. Antoine must've sensed his anxiety. He reached across the center seat, oblivious to Rigel's protests about her personal space, and grabbed Preston's hand. "You okay there, Prep?" he asked, eyes concerned.

Preston squeezed Antoine's hand once. "A little overwhelmed, that's all."

Antoine gave him a reassuring smile. "You'll be fine. Just tackle the day one positive affirmation at a time, you know?"

Preston returned the smile. "I know, Antoine. I know. Thank you."

"Don't mention it." Antoine tucked his hands back into his own lap, and closed his eyes.


	21. Chapter 21

Rigel followed the GPS coordinates Preston had given her, deftly navigating the roads of Springfield. "There. Up ahead you can see the cooling towers." Preston pointed to the iconic symbols of the nuclear industry rising off in the distance above the western treeline.

It was mid-afternoon on April sixteenth. The sun still fairly high in the sky. Despite the snowy winter Springfield had, March came in like a lion: eating the snow with voracious southern winds. The result left an unseasonably warm and dry April.

Antoine, sitting in the back seat, rolled his window down and stuck out a hand. "Man, it feels almost tropical compared to home," he remarked as he sniffed the air.

"Tropical… yeah…" agreed Preston as he looked out the window. Rigel drove the most direct route, cutting south from the airport, then west across the river.

"Sir, is everything all right?" she asked, glancing out of the corner of her eye.

Preston eyed her silently for a moment. "We'll have to discuss that in detail later. But yes, Miss Vought, for now I am perfectly fine."

Rigel crossed the river, and followed the GPS directions along the shores. The cooling towers loomed ever closer, a familiar sight to Preston and Antoine both. At the gate house they paused while the guard took their identification and called up to the main office. A few minutes later, she handed their ID cards back and waved them in.

Rigel noted the one-way tire spikes, a system of pop-up bollards, and two sets of fences: an outer that was clearly marked as electrified, and an inner with stands of barbed wire along the top. "They take security seriously here," Rigel remarked as they drove to the executive lot.

"They have guard dogs too," added Antoine from the back seat.

"I see." Rigel parked their rental car and turned off the engine.

Preston nodded. "And those are just the measures we know about." He climbed out of the car and held Antoine's door. "Mister Burns likes his privacy, and dislikes intrusions. I'm sure he's got several other surprises he won't talk about.

Antoine handed Rigel her tablet. "Do we go in, check with security or something? I've never actually been inside," he admitted.

"Preston, Antoine!" A familiar tenor voice called cheerfully across the parking lot. A middle-aged man in an olive suit coat, purple bow tie, and slate grey chinos hurried over to them. He had mouse grey hair gelled into spikes oddly similar to Rigel's, and a friendly face. His brown eyes twinkled behind a pair of round rimmed glasses. Waylon Smithers, co-owner of the Springfield Nuclear Power Plant.

"So good to see you again," he said, extending a hand to Preston. The two men shook hands warmly. "Antoine," Smithers greeted, but before he could even offer a handshake, Antoine wrapped him in a firm bear hug.

"Okay, okay. Easy big boy," Smithers said laughing. He pushed Antoine off him and straightened his tie.

"And you must be Rigel Vought. I've heard so much about you." Smithers took Rigel's hand gracefully. "All good things of course," he added with a grin. "I must admit I was initially surprised you were coming along, but, well, these two both speak well of you and the more the merrier, right?" Smithers gestured to the door. "Come on, I'll show you around. You'll have to pardon our appearance. We're in the middle of a few major upgrades," he explained.

Rigel dropped neatly into step beside Antoine, behind Smithers and Preston. She pulled out her tablet as she walked, and loaded some information about Burns Worldwide Consolidated.

Smithers seemed like an amiable enough fellow. She listened as he explained their plant, the kilowatt output, and took them on a tour of the various spaces. It was true, Rigel had to admit, the Springfield plant didn't have the crisp, cutting-edge feel of the Plateau City plant. She could see signs of intense renovations taking place. An entire section of ductwork was exposed down by the generator rooms, and a work crew swarmed like ants pulling old sections and fitting new ones.

"We've been going round the clock on most of these projects," Smithers explained proudly as he leaned on a railing next to Preston. "I'm looking forward to bringing this plant from 'acceptable' to setting the new standard for nuclear generating in the United States," Smithers said proudly. "Mister Burns, bless his heart, has authorized the replacement of most of the existing infrastructure. A several year changeover to the tune of multiple millions. Well worth it though. Absolutely." Smithers put his foot on the railing and looked out over the main hall proudly.

Preston nodded thoughtfully. "What are you doing with the old parts?"

"Functional or defunct?"

Preston gestured to a perfectly sound looking set of hydro pumps sitting beside some tangled and corroded ducts. "Those, over there. They look in fine working order."

"They are," Smithers admitted with a hint of reluctance, "but why replace only some of the system. Those pumps there are getting shipped out to be retooled and installed elsewhere. But those junk ducts? Those'll get hauled off to the scrap yard."

Rigel watched, her keen eyes taking it all in.

"Mister Smithers," she began tentatively.

"Hmmm?" Smithers replied, turning his attention to her.

"According to the flight plan," she brought up a schedule on her tablet, "we're slated to be here four days. Will all of that be spent at your facility here, or do you have adjacent property."

Smithers' eyes widened as he looked over at Preston and Antoine. "She doesn't know?" he mouthed.

Both the thin CEO of the Plateau City plant and his blue-haired shook their heads.

"Oh." Smithers snorted with mild amusement. "Well done then, Preston. I'm proud of you. I'll have my secretary get another nondisclosure agreement. You all can sign them before we head over." Smithers pulled out a smartphone and sent a quick memo. "He'll meet us in a minute as soon as the lawyer's free," Smithers explained. "In the meantime, come, you can join me my office. Regrettably, the handsome Mister Burns is indisposed at the moment, but Preston I've set up some time with him later tonight."

Rigel followed Smithers and the other men up into the administrative department of the Springfield Plant. She couldn't help but notice the artwork on the walls. Pictures reminisce of classic sculptures and paintings, all in the likeness of Montgomery Burns. Occasionally, an icon of Smithers hung, interspaced between the other pieces. It seemed both pretentious, and more than a little intimidating.

Smithers led them to a set of double doors. The brass plaque outside the door bore two names: C. M. Burns, and W. J. Smithers. Smithers unlocked the office and beckoned them inside.

Rigel gasped in surprise; so too did Antoine and Preston.

"It's a humble space," Smithers said with false modesty. He gestured to a couch and several chairs. "Please, make yourselves at home."

Rigel turned slowly in place, taking everything in. 'Humble' was hardly the word she'd use. Burns' office was larger than her parents' house, and more much refined. The ceiling was arched, and easily twenty feet at the highest point.

The office stretched out before them, ending in a high arched window behind Burns' massive desk. A pair of French doors, set into the window, opened onto a balcony beyond. The wall to Rigel's left boasted floor to ceiling bookshelves, easily ten feet tall. Beyond that, across from the desk, was a bay of surveillance monitors, currently dark. To the right of Burns' desk was a second couch, and a stuffed polar bear reared up on its hind legs. A writing desk, two guest chairs, and a small coffee bar completed the ensemble, to say nothing of the artwork on the walls.

Smithers' phone chirped. He glanced at it, and frowned slightly. "I need to take this. I'll be right back. Help yourself to coffee. Don't touch any buttons." Smithers left, closing the double doors behind him.

Antoine sauntered over to the couch and flopped down. "I need an office like this," he remarked as he stretched his legs out.

Rigel noticed Preston had wandered over to stand next to her. Together they stared up at a larger-than-life oil painting of Montgomery Burns. Done in the style of classical realism the portrait was as detailed as a photograph. Burns sat in deep velvet chair. To his right in the painting was a globe. His right hand rested on the globe, the other was draped confidently over the arm of the chair. To his left sat a table with a gold pocket watch. His painted eyes regarded the viewer with a mixture of sagacity and contempt. The message was clear to viewers: _This world, and all the time in in, are mine_.

Clearly everything Burns did was designed to intimidate, and impress. After a moment, Preston left and sat in one of the chairs by the desk. Rigel said nothing, merely looked and committed the details to memory.

* * *

Waylon Smithers finished up his phone call, and returned to the office, lawyer at his side. The lawyer, a tall, balding man with a grey blazer and red bowtie set the nondisclosure agreements on the desk and laid a pen on each one.

Smithers absentmindedly ran his thumb over the white gold band on his right ring finger while the lawyer explained the purpose of the agreements, and what they essentially meant. Basically, from here on, the little covey of Preston and his employees were bound to secrecy: to not discuss, except with each other, anything they would see or hear regarding Mister Burns' or Smithers' personal affairs.

Everyone signed without complaint, though Rigel looked as if she had an unasked question. Smithers decided to bite.

"Miss Vought, is there something on your mind?" he asked, stepping over to her.

Rigel looked at the form she'd just signed. "One question, if I may, Mister Smithers."

"Go ahead."

"Why are we signing these _after_ touring your plant?"

Smithers smiled. "Well, Miss Vought, I'm glad you asked. There's a two part reason to this visit. I'm glad to see my friends here have managed to be discrete till now." He gestured to Preston and Antoine. "You'll be staying with me, guests at my home: Burns Manor."

Smithers glanced at his watch. "And though I don't wish to rush you, we should probably be on our way over. I'll explain more once we arrive." He gave Rigel a reassuring smile. "Don't worry, this isn't all business. Mister Burns and I are hosting a small gathering. Very few guests, a private affair."

Smithers held the door open for Rigel as they stepped into the hall. "Once we're there," he continued, "I want you to relax and enjoy yourself. Take today and tomorrow to make yourselves at home."

"Thank you, Mister Smithers."

Smithers chuckled. "Please, outside of work, call me Waylon, or even just Smithers. I go by both equally it seems."

Rigel agreed.

As they approached the main entrance, Smithers caught up to Preston and pulled him aside. "I've been able to talk Monty into giving you some time tonight if you're up to it. A one-on-one to discuss things. I don't care if you assistant comes along, but he probably will. If I were you, I'd bring her anyway."

Preston nodded, and agreed.

Smithers put a hand on his shoulder warmly and faced the younger man. "When we first met, I never thought I'd be saying this, but it's good to see you again, Preston."

Preston hung his head shyly. "It's good to see you too, Waylon."

* * *

Rhonda sat back in Plateau City. She had a flight scheduled first thing tomorrow morning. She'd tried to get one for the same day Preston and his little toadies left, but wasn't able to manage it. Fortunately, she reasoned, there was still time.

She booted up her computers and logged into the system. She'd seen Rigel with that tablet. Company property. _Good old Torus Communications_ , Rhonda thought, bearing her teeth in a smoke-stained grin. Accessible worldwide. Connectivity anywhere from the heart of the city to Antarctica.

Of course, that meant access both ways. Each company network device could be traced, a security and anti-theft program. It also allowed Rhonda to track last known and current locations of any company web device.

Like, for example, a tablet in the possession of a certain young administrative assistant.

Rhonda selected Rigel's tablet and clicked "locate."

Almost immediately, the map began to fill with red lines, tracers that showed the path the tablet (and Rigel) had taken. There was a gap from LaGuardia to Springfield, but that was to be expected. Airplane mode. Once the tablet landed in Springfield, the line resumed, cutting through the town, over the river and to the nuclear power plant. There, Rigel had stayed for a few hours before heading south and west to an area just east of the Springfield Mountains.

The tablet didn't give an exact location down to the inch, but the one it gave was accurate enough. Rhonda switched views from "map" to "aerial photo" and assessed the tablet's location.

Rigel's tablet had come to rest at a huge estate. It didn't take a genius to figure out where. "Burns Manor," Rhonda hissed, face illuminated hauntingly in the dull glow of the monitors. "I knew it."

She cursed her luck that she wasn't already there, but nothing could be done. Rhonda quickly transferred a copy of the TorusCom location program to her smart phone (also company property), and powered down her computers.

She stood as the darkness enveloped her; grey suit coat fading into the shadows like smoke itself.


	22. Chapter 22

Montgomery Burns listened to the sounds of his fiancé and friends chatting in the solarium, and debated on joining them. He'd avoided joining them for dinner, an uncharacteristic behavior from the man who typically made the grand gesture of playing host.

At the same time, Burns cherished his privacy. For the first time in as many decades as he could remember, the rooms of his manor would soon be filled with more guests than he'd entertained since before he worked at Springfield University. What was that, fifty or sixty years ago? Burns couldn't quite remember. There were the Plateau boys and that assistant Rigel. Larry, his wife and their children would be arriving tomorrow. If it seemed crowded now, it would only be more chaotic tomorrow.

Burns debated long and hard about whether to show his face. He missed Smithers' company though. Finally, he relented and went downstairs.

They were sitting, back to the door, watching the last trickle of daylight fade in the west. A bottle of wine sat on the table. Glasses stood in various states of fullness. Burns regarded them quietly for a moment, observing the dynamic.

The assistant? She wore a skirt and a tasteful sweater, and sat off to Preston's right. She seemed rather quiet, but smart. He had no doubt she was listening to everything said, recording it in her brain. She was a decent looking girl, young, but not naïve. Eager, but not pushy. She'd mature nicely, Burns thought.

Preston on the other hand looked like he'd been through too much. His eyes had a slightly haunted look to them, his cheeks sunken in more than Burns remembered. The miasma of trauma still hung over him. It was subtle, but it an aura Burns was far too familiar with. _What's got him so disturbed?_ Burns wondered. Nothing that he'd heard explained Preston's subdued demeanor. Burns couldn't imagine anything that awful had happened since last they met.

The blue-haired fellow? He seemed largely unchanged. That was a good thing.

Burns eyes then fell to Smithers. _His_ Smithers. _Look how far we've come_ , he thought as he watched from the doorway. He studied the way Smithers' held his hands, the way he tossed his head back when he laughed. _Such a beautiful profile, and he's all mine_ , Burns thought proudly.

He straightened his jacket and strode into the room, the master of the house. "Good evening, honored guests," he remarked.

Smithers leapt to his feet. "Monty! Glad you decided to join us. Here, have my seat. I'll get another chair." Smithers gestured to the wicker chair he'd so recently been sitting in.

Burns smiled graciously and sat down. He regarded the small gathering, tenting his fingers out of habit. "It is so nice that you call could make it. Preston, my boy, you look like you've lost weight." He glanced over to Antoine. From the front, he could see Antoine's figure better. "And it appears this fellow here has found it." He narrowed his eyes. "Has anyone suggested you may wish to stop stuffing yourself like some common Spaniard?"

(Rigel glanced nervously from Burns to Antoine.)

"What can I say, Mister Burns? Guns like these need a lot of ammo." Antoine flexed his arms proudly, showing a notable amount of muscling. "Got a hard job down in Infrastructure. Gotta be strong like a bear."

Burns rolled his eyes. The blue-haired man never seemed to take anything seriously. "A teddy bear, perhaps," Burns replied dismissively.

He gestured back to Preston. "But tell me, Tucci, what has been the matter with you? Why the ashen face and haunted eyes? You sounded so much stronger back east. Before me, you seem positively offish?" Burns hunched his shoulders forward. "You've all signed confidentiality agreements. As your host, I demand you tell me what's going on."

Preston shifted in his chair, slouching uncharacteristically against the arm rest. He reached over, drained his wine glass and set it back on the table with more force than was necessary. He'd apparently been drinking more than he ought, Burns decided.

"You want to know what's going on Monty?" he asked, his eyes flashing with dark fire. "I'll tell you the truth. Both of you!" he gestured to Smithers. "I'm not happy to be here. I don't have a lot of fond memories of Springfield." He reached for his wine glass, realized it was empty, then produced another bottle from behind his chair. "Don't get me wrong," he added as he uncorked it, "I'm happy for both of you, and flattered you'd invite me, but how do you think I'd feel after last time?"

"Preppy…" Antoine began, voice filling with trepidation. He reached for Preston's hand, but Preston shook him away.

"Not now, Antoine," Preston muttered.

Antoine gave Burns a shrug as if to say _I tried, he's all yours_ , and folded his arms across his chest.

Burns glanced over at Smithers. _A lover's spat?_ He asked with his eyes.

Smithers shrugged. He clearly had no idea.

Burns poured himself a glass of wine, and tented his fingers. "So tell me then, Tucci, what is the issue here?"

Preston refilled his glass. "The issue here is last time I was out this way, a lot of bad things happened, and I'm not exactly finding it easy to get over." Preston gestured to Smithers. "Then _he_ says I might want to start continuing where Dimas left off, citing all sorts of reasons from covering my own butt to not getting thrown under the bus by yours." He took a sip of his wine. "Well, maybe I want to move past all that. Maybe I never want to think about that day again, and now I'm out here and the things I could ignore back home are thrown in my face like I can't forget them now!"

(Rigel Vought felt as if she were watching a tennis match. Her head snapped back from Preston to Burns. She had no idea what was happening.)

Preston glared at Burns, his cheeks burning. Antoine reached out again. Preston shoved his hand away and stood up. Wine glass in hand, he paced to the glass wall of the solarium overlooking the dark grounds. He stared at Burns over his shoulder.

"I was shot, point blank, in the stomach. I didn't deserve that. I can't forget that. I never asked to be a hero. Do you know what it's like to see a gun pointed at your body, to know what it feels like when a bullet enters flesh? Do you know how violated and helpless you feel? I mean, honestly, who here has ever been shot before?"

Antoine raised his hand tentatively. "I got shot with an arrow," he whispered, pulling the collar of his shirt down and pointing to the scar.

"I know you did, Antoine," Preston sighed tiredly. "We _all_ do."

Smithers sighed and put his fingers in the air. "I was shot once. He mostly missed. Got me across the right arm. Who was it, Darryl Strawberry?" Smithers shook his head. "I honestly can't remember. One of the Major League Baseball players we were trying to recruit. It wasn't pleasant."

Preston flashed Smithers a dangerously unbalanced look. "Yes, well, that's not exactly potentially fatal is it."

Burns stood up. "No, but mine was."

Preston backed up as Burns approached. Although the old man was significantly shorter, he was imposing nonetheless.

"I've had pistols held to my ribs, and revolvers to my skull. A shotgun pressed against my back. Right here, from mere inches, I was shot," Burns said, straightening up and tapping a spot at his left breast. "Here. From less than a foot away. An inch higher and that leaden projectile would've pierced my heart." Burns bared his teeth and gestured to a chair. "You are not the only one who has lived long enough to find themselves scarred. Now sit down, Tucci."

Humbled, Preston sat down.

Burns returned to his own chair. He settled into it and propped his feet on the table. "Much as it might ruin your world view, Tucci, life isn't safe. There are no guarantees, there are no promises. The very act of being alive puts us all in the unpleasant position of having that ripped away at a moment's notice. Sometimes, we bring it on ourselves. Sometimes…" he glanced at Smithers, "… sometimes we bring it on others." Burns tented his fingers and lowered his head. "And then there are the moments where what we do allows someone else to draw breath for another day."

Smithers piped up. "You saved my life, Preston. If you hadn't distracted Franklin, he would've shot me in the head." Smithers raised his glass to Preston. "I wouldn't be alive if it weren't for you."

"I'm no hero," Preston muttered. "I did that without thinking."  
Burns and Smithers exchanged looks. "My boy," Burns began slowly, "that's exactly what a hero is! Someone who rises to the occasion without ratiocination. You saw a moment that could make or break a life. You didn't hesitate. You acted." Burns looked down at his hands for a moment. "Not every man can claim the same. Yours is a special breed."

Preston raised his head, eyes filling with angry tears. "I'm not special," he said with a faint sneer. "I never have been."

Burns pointed to Antoine. "You are to him."

Antoine gave a weak smile and a wave.

Burns gestured to Smithers. "And you saved that one; for which I am eternally grateful. I suppose I owe you a debt of my own." He rested his chin on his fingertips. "So tell me again, what exactly is the problem here?"

Preston handed his glasses to Antoine and covered his eyes with his hands. "I can't forget it. I keep seeing it over and over. Antoine covered in blood, Dimas carrying him to the control room. Rhodes, Franklin… I can't…" Preston hung his head.

A moment of silence hung through the solarium, broken only by the soft trickle of water in the fountain.

Rigel's soft voice finally broke the stillness. "What _did_ happen out here? It wasn't a kidnapping attempt, was it."

Smithers shook his head sadly. "Oh no. It was more than that. Do you want me to, Monty; or would you care to have the honors?"

Burns rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "It's my project. Allow me." He turned his attention to Rigel. "You see, Miss Vought, back during the Cold War, I set myself up with a bomb shelter in the desert. Several levels, designed to withstand any act of man or God. Initially, everything ran on petrol. These days, I power it with the spent fuel rods. There's still a lot of good left in those delightful little things. It's all perfectly legal on paper; approved by the Nuclear Regulatory Commission itself." He finished his wine and refilled his glass. "I also provided a little service to others in the country. For a small exchange of funds, I'd gladly dry-store their spent rods in my silos. Thaddeus Dimas was one of my clients. It was an arrangement that his father coaxed me into: a favor, one Yalie to another."

"And that's why are cooling ponds aren't overflowing with spent assemblies," Preston muttered into his hands.

Burns nodded. "Precisely." He twirled his wineglass thoughtfully. "Now, unfortunately, Dimas made mistakes. And not the sort I would've expected."

Smithers coughed.

Burns gave him a warning look. "Alright Smithers, I too made mistakes of a similar nature. Dimas and I, we were both guilty of casting aside our families for our own selfish pursuits. I for wealth, him for women. Somehow, it came to pass that my grandson, Franklin, reached out to Dimas' son, Rhodes. Or maybe it was the other way around. I don't truly think it matters. Long and short, Rhodes came with the intent to commit patricide, and in that he was successful."

Burns set his glass on the table and regarded Rigel thoughtfully. "Your Thaddeus Dimas did not die a hero, trying to save Smithers and myself. He died like a dog. And now, there is nothing left of that story but closure. It is though, why I have taken to inviting my son and his family to my wedding. It cannot, I fear, make up for the past. But since the incident at AlkaliStark I have been trying to recover the present." He straightened his back. "And now, Miss Vought, you know."

Rigel met his eyes unblinking. "Now I see why the nondisclosure agreement was necessary."

"What, my dear?" Burns' face pinched in surprise, then he laughed; actually laughed. "Oh no, Miss Vought, those past dealings have absolutely nothing to do with that paper. Do you honestly think I couldn't keep people silent by other means when it comes to my projects?" He beamed. "Child, my need for such confidentiality is of a much more personal matter."

Reaching out, Burns grasped Smithers hand firmly in his. "This charming specimen here has decided he's willing to forego the pursuits of any others, and has pledged his hand and heart to me forever more." Burns winked at Smithers. "I daresay I could not imagine my days without the gladness of his company at my side day and night."

Smithers winked back.

Burns watched Rigel's face, smirking as realization dawned in her eyes. "Oh," she said softly. "Oh!" Rigel clutched her hands to her mouth, and uncharacteristic display of emotion. "Best wishes for you both, sirs!"

Smithers chuckled lightly, and gave her a smile. "Please, I told you. Call me Waylon. It feels weird to be called sir."

Burns raised an eyebrow. "It doesn't feel weird to me."

Smithers laughed. "You've had more time to get used to it."

* * *

Preston sat hunched up, looking oddly alone. Antoine sighed and slid his chair closer. "You okay, Preppy?"

Preston lifted his head to Antoine's. His face was drawn, but not pained. He gestured to Burns as the old man chatted lightly with Rigel and Smithers. "I hadn't thought about what he said, about being a hero and all."

"You always felt kinda like the victim, huh," Antoine observed.

Preston hunched his shoulders in agreement. "Not victim exactly. Powerless, helpless. Like everything since that moment has been spinning out of control and I can't do anything about it. I'd been feeling better back home, but coming here made it too real again."  
"Real," Antoine agreed, draping an arm around Preston, "but you got through it. You're here, and nothing bad is going to happen. I'm here, your friends are here. Heck, if it weren't for you saving Waylon over there, there wouldn't be a marriage! Old Burnsie there would be sad and alone, and Waylon would be in the ground somewhere. Technically, I you saved two lives that day." Antoine gave Preston a squeeze. "And so maybe the rest of the world doesn't know it. But so what? I mean, the important thing is that _you_ know it; because the rest of us do." Antoine removed his arm and stood up. He poured Preston's wine glass into his own, and finished it in a single gulp.

"I dunno about you, Prep, but I think I'm going to be heading to bed soon. Jet lag and all. Or something. You need your sleep too."

Preston looked into his empty wine glass sadly, his cheeks slightly flushed. "You drank my wine." His voice was slightly petulant.

"Yeah. A necessary evil. I might not be very smart, but I really don't think you should try and match drinks with Burnsie there. Something tells me he has a lot more practice." Antoine jabbed a thumb in Burns' direction.

"Riley! I'm going to bow out. Preston too. You gonna stay up?"

Rigel nodded. "I think so, yes. Waylon showed me my room earlier. It's across from yours, I believe."

Antoine nodded. "Ordinarily, Preston and I would have separate rooms, but with the other guests coming in and all…" Antoine turned his attention to Preston. "You don't snore, do you?"

Preston rolled his eyes. "No, Antoine. I don't snore."

Antoine followed Preston out of the solarium into the great hall. "You know I don't snore," he whispered as they ascended the stairs.

"Yeah, but there's this thing called 'keeping up appearances,' Preppy." Antoine pulled his hair out of his ponytail and shook it free. "You already know all about that. Anyhow Rigel probably won't even notice. She seemed positively misty over Burns and Waylon there. It's a good thing."

Their room was the same one they'd stayed in before, spacious but not overly extravagant, with two full beds. A guest room for two. Unlike last time when they'd slept separately, Antoine was fairly sure Preston would curl up with him at some point in the night.

While Preston changed in the bathroom, and went through his evening routines, Antoine took a moment to look over the books in the shelf along one wall. Burns had books everywhere, it seemed. Antoine wondered vaguely if Burns had read them all. Once the washroom was free, Antoine slipped in and took care of what he needed to do.

He climbed into the bed across from Preston's and smiled sleepily. "You going to be alright?"

Preston yawned. "Are you going to keep asking me that?"

"Until the answer is 'yes,' then yeah, I probably will." Antoine reached for the light. "Goodnight, Preppy."

"Good night, Antoine."

Preston turned the light off. Through the darkness, Antoine voice drifted over. "You never answered my question."

Preston nestled deeper into the soft blankets. "I'll be alright, Antoine. It's just going to take time."

"Okay. But I'm here if you need anything."  
"I know. Thank you." Antoine heard Preston's smile in his reply.

"Any time, Prep. That's what friends do." He rolled over, and fell asleep almost immediately.


	23. Chapter 23

Waylon Smithers stood at the front door of the manor, watching as a silver rental car rolled up the drive. He straightened his tie and took a deep breath. His future son-in-law, Larry. Future daughter-in-law and grandkids too.

Smithers put on a wide grin, and hoped it looked believable. Larry could truly try his patience. The man meant well, he knew, but he under-educated and completely uncouth. Smithers was not particularly looking forward to being addressed as "Chuckles" again. He rubbed his hands together briskly and tried to look calm.

The car pulled to a stop. Larry Burns climbed out. Before he'd even reached the passenger side to open the door for his wife the back door popped open and two children tumbled out like puppies. Smithers was struck by the resemblance the children had to their father, and to Burns. They all bore same aquiline face. _The bloodline breeds true_ , Smithers thought as he made his way down the steps.

Larry Burns was a heavyset man, almost the same height as his father, but significantly more stout. His face was clean-shaven, but his grey hair was not quite as silvery as Burns' but it would get there shortly, and it was steadily thinning at the top. Larry had the same blue eyes of his father, but they were softer, creased at the edges from years of laughter.

Larry had once described himself as "lazy as a rug on Valium," and yet the man worked two jobs to support his family. Lazy, it seemed could be a misnomer, Smithers mused.

"Good morning, Larry," Smithers said, offering a hand.

"Hey, Smithers!" Larry grabbed his hand solidly. "Or do I call you Pops now? Wait that would get terribly confusing. How about I call you Pop-pop?"

Smithers felt like his grin had frozen in place. "How about Smithers, or Waylon? How's that, Larry?"

"Hey you're the boss, and my new dad! So I'll call you whatever you want. Here, lemme introduce you to my kids" he said, whistling for the children that were already wrestling in the front lawn. The children paused their roughhousing and looked up. "The tall one's Elliot Clifford. The short one's Donna Adeline." The children waved, then resumed their game. "Oh yeah, and my wife. Lemme introduce you to her too!"

Larry ran back to the car where a blond woman was carefully organizing her purse. "This beautiful creature is Janet. I don't know how she manages to put up with a slob like me, but she does and I love her for it. Hey Janet, this is Waylon! He's going to be my new dad."

Larry, as usual, was talking a mile a minute. Smithers found it hard to even get a word in. He stepped around Larry as best he could. "Janet, a pleasure to meet you."

Janet smiled and tilted her head. "Back at you, Waylon."

Smithers was rather taken back by her casual attitude, but only for a moment. Janet looked like a strong country woman from the east coast. It stood to reason she'd act the part as well. He gestured to the manor. "Please, come in. I'll have your bags brought up to your room. We're having a gathering today on the west lawn, the ceremony and formal reception will tomorrow."

"Hey good thing I brought my marrying-and-burying suit," Larry grinned. "I tell you what, Waylon, you don't look like you've aged more than a day since yesterday; but in these past few years before that, whoa. Looks like you've been through a lot!"

Smithers smiled graciously. "Charming as always, Larry."

Janet laughed. "I know, isn't he just the cleverest thing?" She turned to the kids and bellowed with a voice like an air horn: "Elliot! Donna! Get up here and meet your grandfather?"

The children dusted themselves off and started over.

"Long plane ride for those two. They're just anxious to burn off some steam. They'll settle down," Janet explained. She turned back to the kids. "You wanna run all over the lawn? Then you can run to get over here! _Hustle!"_

The children broke into a jog. Elliot resembled a miniature version of his mother with blond hair and brown eyes. He still had the classic Burns features though, high cheekbones and aristocratic nose. Donna looked more like her father, her blue eyes contrasting sharply with her brown hair. They loped to a halt in front of Smithers. Elliot extended his hand. "Pleased to meet you, sir."

Smithers was momentarily caught off guard by the child's manners. He'd expected no better than the parents, and possibly quite worse. "Uhm, pleased to meet you, Elliot," he replied, shaking the boy's hand once.

The girl, Donna peered at Smithers through her rectangular glasses. She offered a hand: "Hello," she said confidently.

Smithers gave a slight bow. "Hello, Donna."

The girl grinned and looked at her parents. "Now can we go play?"

Janet looked up at Smithers.

He made a go ahead gesture. "Just stay in the yards in sight of the manor. There's a lot of land here, you could get lost." He beckoned Larry and Janet indoors.

Larry glanced over his shoulder. "They'll be safe, right? I know you have attack dogs here."

Smithers patted him on the shoulder. "Don't worry Larry. Mister Burns and I made sure they're all put up secure for today and tomorrow. We'll be keeping them kenneled while we've got company." He placed his other hand on Janet's shoulder and lead them into the main hall. "I'll show you to your room. We got one next to you for the kids. And of course if you need anything, just let either of us know. Mister Burns, eh Monty, is out on the veranda with our other guests and would gladly welcome your company."

"Hey, thanks Pop, you're alright." Larry grabbed Smithers in an uncomfortably tight hug.

"'Waylon,' please," Smithers squeaked.

Mercifully, Larry let go. "Oh yeah, that's right. Like a saxophone player. Wailin' out the blues. I can remember that, Pop. Oops, sorry, I did it again didn't I." Larry looked abashed.

Smithers tried to look reassuring. "It's alright," he said, even though honestly, it wasn't. As he parted ways with Larry and Janet and made his way back to the front of the house he had to admit "Pop" was not the worst thing he'd ever been called. Still, all things being equal, he really hoped Larry would break that habit soon.

* * *

Smithers barely had time to make it to the front steps before a familiar pink sedan rolled to a stop behind Larry's rental car. Smithers tented his fingers. There was only one minister in Springfield who would perform the sort of marriage he and Burns had planned. And fortunately, that man was already on the company payroll. He'd signed a nondisclosure agreement as part of his initial working contract.

Between Smithers' generous bonus for performing the ceremony, and the unspoken hint that someone might get fired if he refused, the man eagerly agreed to the proposition. He'd be arriving for the gathering this afternoon, staying the night, then released tomorrow after the wedding ceremony and reception.

Homer Simpson. The long-time safety inspector from Sector Seven G.

Smithers had a complicated relationship with Homer Simpson. It was a friendship, after a fashion, but they'd never been pals. Out of the little work clique Homer had of himself, Lenny and Carl, Smithers had to admit he liked Homer best. That didn't necessarily mean much, but the man had a good heart. That had to count for something, Smithers reasoned.

Smithers started down the steps then paused. He saw a commotion in the car. There were way too many people in it. Sighing in frustration, Smithers picked up his pace. Homer's wife, Marge, was already stepping out from the passenger side.

Smithers broke into a trot down the remaining few stairs.

Homer waved. "Hi Mister Smithers!"

His words were echoed by three other voices: Marge, and Springfield's own 'Bobbsey Twins,' the familiar Bart and Lisa."

Smithers waved charmingly to them, then quickly pulled Homer aside. "You brought your family, Simpson?" he whispered, dumbfounded. "What part of 'private family ceremony' did you not understand?"

Homer looked genuinely chastised. He hung his head. "It included the word 'family,'" he offered meekly.

"I meant _our_ family."

Homer tilted his head like a confused dog. "Yours and mine?"

"Gah, no! I meant _my_ family. Well, mine and Mister Burns' family; not yours." Smithers resisted the urge to grab Homer by the shoulders and give him a good shaking. He ran his fingers through his ash-grey hair and stomped his foot in frustration. Unbidden, he felt eyes on his back. Smithers glanced over his shoulder.

Marge was standing watching them, baby Maggie in her arms.

"Is everything okay, Mister Smithers?" she called out anxiously.

Smithers gave her a charming smile. "Everything's fine Marge." He turned his attention back to Homer. "Look… god… Okay, fine. You know what, you're all here. Whatever, I can deal with this. We have enough rooms. But why, Simpson, why do you always bring your family everywhere with you?"

Homer's lower lip protruded slightly. He looked up with plaintive eyes. "Because I love them?"

Smithers dropped his forehead into his hand. "Okay. Great; fine. I'm sure you'll all have a wonderful time. Can you promise me they won't talk about anything?"

Homer nodded enthusiastically. "Oh sure! Absolutely. Marge and Lisa can keep a secret better than anyone, and Maggie can't talk yet."

"What about Bart?"

"The boy used to live here with you guys and we _still_ don't know the details."

Smithers gave a snort of amusement. "You have a point there." Smithers threw up his hands in surrender. "I guess we're just going to have a few more people than expected." He walked with Homer back to the car. "Just leave your stuff here, we'll have it brought up to your rooms. Simpson, I'm sure you know your way around?"

Homer nodded.

"Okay. Mister Burns and the rest of the guests are out on the veranda." Smithers dropped to a knee in front of Bart and Lisa, putting his face closer to their level. It was something he naturally did when talking to children. "Elliot and Donna are here, they're about your age; probably off playing right now. You're welcome to explore outside, just stay in sight of the manor, okay? I don't want anybody getting lost."

Lisa nodded. "Yes, Mister Smithers."

Bart flashed him a jaunty thumbs up. "You got it, man!"

With that, the children ran off, squabbling in the way that siblings do. Smithers pushed himself up and dusted off his pant legs. That accounted for everyone. Time to see how the rest of the party was getting on.

* * *

Monty Burns found himself enjoying the company far more than he would've expected. It was a motley crew to be sure, and yet the different personalities blended quite nicely.

The servants had set up a small shade tent on the veranda, with a single comfortable table and several chairs. No one had assigned seats, and periodically the group would rearrange as they drifted and chatted to one another. Burns sat near Preston and Smithers, chatting business, but nothing too serious. Or classified. Preston seemed a bit more tired than Burns would've expected, but after their conversations last night it did make sense.

Marge sat next to Smithers, and beyond Marge his daughter-in-law Janet had pulled up an empty chair. Both she and Marge appeared to be enjoying the fact that she didn't have to play hostess for a change. Occasionally the women and Smithers would put their heads together, whisper something quietly, then giggle. _The hen's club_ , Burns thought affectionately as he glanced at his partner.

Across from Burns his grandson Elliot Burns sat, periodically asking questions about nuclear energy, and alternately discussing his latest baseball games. Donna sat beside her brother, eager to learn more about her grandfather. Burns found it refreshing to

Rigel, he noticed tended towards sitting quietly off to the side. The Simpson girl, Lisa, seemed to have taken a shine to her. Rigel was talking about all these various 'save the earth' programs her family had been involved in over the years, and Lisa was hanging on every word.

Off in the lawn, Homer, Larry, Antoine and Bart had engaged in a spirited game of croquette. Burns couldn't help but wonder how long it would be until the entire game dissolved into a free-for-all. He wondered vaguely if any of those four were ultimately mature enough to be trusted with a mallet.

"You know Waylon," Burns remarked out of the blue, "I can't remember the last time I had so many people here for a reason other than entertaining me."

Smithers let his fingers trace over the back of Burns' hand. "Do you like it?"

Burns chewed a thumbnail as he considered his answers. "It's nice," he said decisively. "But let's not make a habit of it. I think, ultimately, I shall always prefer solitude." He winked at Smithers. "Or, of course, the company of one."

The small party stayed out until the sun dropped below the hills to the west. Then it was time for dinner.

* * *

Rhonda LeBlanc stepped off the plane in Springfield, North Tacoma and fired up her laptop. It had been a rough flight. She'd planned to leave early in the morning, then an unexpected thunderstorm rolled through, grounding all of LaGuardia.

She'd cursed the luck of it all. But now? Now she was back on track. The sun might be setting, but she'd be there. The tablet had moved around Burns Manor, but hadn't left the property. That, at least was an auspicious sign. Whatever was going on, at least Rigel was staying put. And if Rigel was there, so was Preston. The pitifully underqualified CEO wouldn't go far without his assistant. Feeling somewhat better, Rhonda secured her laptop and went to pick up her rental car.

The sun had already set by the time she crossed the river. The world was in shadow.

Rhonda slowly idled up to the gates of Burns Manor.

Much to her surprise, the gates swung open as she approached. A pressure sensor, most likely. She pulled her car in and parked on small pull-off conveniently located behind a row of hedges. From there, her car couldn't be seen from the main house. Rhonda slipped out of the car, shutting the door gently behind her. She'd brought a pair of compact binoculars with her, good for low-light conditions.

Dressed in grey, and blending in perfectly with the darkness, Rhonda slipped along the side of the manor, staying just beyond the reach of the window light.


	24. Chapter 24

Preston sat at the foot of Antoine's bed. "I'm not ready to sleep yet," he admitted, hands in his lap.

Antoine dug a sweatshirt out of his haphazardly packed suitcase. "Well it is still early. I think everyone's gone down to the den to watch a movie or something. You want to go for a walk?"

Preston nodded. "That could be nice."

"Here," Antoine said, tossing his sweatshirt to Preston. "That'll keep you warm."

"What about you?" Preston asked as he slipped the somewhat large sweatshirt over his head. It felt soft, and it smelled like Antoine. Preston wrapped his arms around himself.

"Don't worry. I'm naturally insulated." He gestured to the door. "Shall we?"

Preston grabbed the knob. "Sure. Why not?"

* * *

Charles Montgomery Burns stood in the back of the den at the manor, with its movie theatre. He'd suggested a film, but now in the darkness beside his beloved, he found his attention was anywhere but on the screen. "Let's take a moment to ourselves," he whispered in Smithers ear. "It's been a long time since we've enjoyed a night stroll together. Would you be so kind to accompany me this evening?"

"I'd love to, Monty," Smithers whispered back.

Unnoticed by their guests, Waylon Smithers and Monty Burns quietly stole away.

* * *

Rhonda moved stealthily along the perimeter of the manor. The veranda was in sight, the solarium, a formal garden. On her way up, she'd passed what looked like a servant's entrance and loading dock.

Rhonda paused, crouched out of the way. What were the odds, she debated, of successfully infiltrating Burns Manor? Not good, she had to conclude. The curtains were drawn in most of the upstairs rooms, but the main level windows were open, affording a good view of the manor interior. It also kept the grounds well lit. Up ahead, by the back porch, Rhonda's sharp eyes saw movement. She squinted, then pulled out the binoculars. There was still enough light to use them near the house.

Two figures, not unknown to her were slowly making their way down the back steps, into the gardens beyond.

Rhonda half-crouched, half-crawled along the edge of the lawn, watching as she went.

.

.

.

* * *

Preston wasn't sure who had taken whose hand first. All he knew is it felt right. He paused beyond the light from the manor, and gently tugged Antoine to a stop. The blue-haired man yielded, and turned to face Preston.

Preston reached up, then drew his hand away. He looked down, almost ashamed. "May I?"  
Antoine tilted his head. "May you what?"

"I just want to stop here for a moment."

Antoine's forehead creased in surprise. "Of course. Why do you feel you even need to ask?"

Preston reached a hand up, placing against the center of Antoine's chest, right above the sternum. "I don't know," he admitted quietly. "I just…" his voice trailed off as he withdrew his hand. He'd felt Antoine's heart beating, strong and fast as his own. "You're a good friend, Antoine."

Antoine rested a hand on his hip, and regarded Preston solemnly. "I try to be."

* * *

Waylon Smithers wore a leather duster that once upon a time had belonged to his father. It was warm, he'd left it unbuttoned. Burns strolled slowly beside him, wearing a military style peacoat and a watchcap. Sometimes he felt colder than he liked to admit at night.

His hand brushed against Smithers, and their fingers interlaced. "I love you, Monty," Smithers whispered softly.

Burns ran a hand delicately along Smithers side. "I know."

With that, the two men followed a familiar gravel path past the formal gardens, and into the rambles beyond.

* * *

Rhonda watched the two men walking away from the house. They moved at a slow pace, sliding out of the light. She watched as they paused, and in the very dim light she could just make out the fact they were holding hands. No… it couldn't be. It was just how their bodies appeared to overlap in the darkness.

And wait, now they'd stopped. She pulled out the binoculars, but there was too little light for them to be effective. Annoyed, she tucked them back in her coat and squinted. It wasn't hard to make out who was who. The difference in build and height alone could give them away. She couldn't see exactly what they were doing though. Some clandestine plan? Some secret trade? Rhonda lay down on her belly and inched, command- style, ever so slightly closer.

Now the men had faced each other? Were they talking. It looked like they were. Rhonda watched, realization striking her. Was it a trick of the dim light, the way they stood? Because from her angle it looked like the they weren't talking at all.

 _No_ , she recoiled, her mind refusing to believe it. She hastily crawled closer, sliding up beside a massive oak tree. _This alone would be grounds enough for termination_ , she thought, gritting her teeth.

From Rhonda's rather disadvantaged view, she would've sworn she was watching Antoine Radson, and her own boss Preston Tucci come together in a lover's embrace.

* * *

Rhonda could not have known, as she packed up against the tree, that she and the two men were not the only creatures awake at night. The moment her hand touched the bark with a rough scrapping sound, a loud shriek rent the air.

.

.

.

* * *

Burns pulled away from Smithers, head snapping up. "Your peacock is aroused."

Smithers snickered quietly.

Burns cuffed him lightly but affectionately on the back of the head. "Damn it man, get your mind out of the gutter. I mean your peafowl. Something's set them off! Listen!"

Across the fields of the manor came a haunting cry, one at first rising in pitch and intensity. It was joined by several others, echoing from tree to tree, each bird adding its own warning call. There was something that alarmed the flock.

Burns tilted Smithers' head to the east. "Look there, by that tree!"

"You know I can't see in this light, Monty," Smithers objected.

"Never you mind that," snapped Burns. He pulled a small silver object out his pocket and put it to his lips. He blew, then tucked the item back in his pocket. "Dog whister. For Crippler," Burns explained as he moved towards the oak tree.

"I thought you said all the hounds were locked up," Smithers whispered.

Burns smirked. "Except my beloved old Crippler. A pity I didn't bring my revolver, eh? Well, he'll just have to make do. I'm not worried about him attacking our guests. A trespasser on the other hand, well, that's another matter." Burns gestured to a shadow in the deeper shadows. "See that intruder now, do you?"

Smithers squinted. "Only barely."

"Well, at least he hasn't seen us. Look at the poor fool, facing the wrong way." Burns reached down and stroked the ancient Doberman that had finally arrived at his heel. Burns stroked the dog's grizzled muzzle fondly, then started towards the figure on the ground. Smithers dropped into step behind him, readying himself for a fight.

* * *

Antoine covered his head as the air was torn apart by loud, meowing screams. "What is that," he asked, looking about worriedly.

Preston peered into a tree, then laughed. "Peacocks! It's just peacocks. I guess we must've woken them up or something.

Antoine clutched a hand over his heart. "Well, that's enough excitement for me tonight. I'm thinking inside sounds pretty good right now."

Preston smiled and patted Antoine on the shoulder. "I've never seen you jump like that before."

"Strange, random, loud noises in the dark? Yeah, I think that would make anyone jump. Come on, Preppy. Let's see how they're doing with that movie."

* * *

Sounds blocked out by the peacock screaming above, Rhonda never heard the soft patter of paws on grass. Never saw anyone coming until a hand grabbed the collar of her shirt and flipped her backward. She stared up into the faces of Waylon Smithers and Montgomery Burns, a Doberman pinscher stood between them growling softly.

"Well well, an intruder," Burns steepled his fingers and loomed in ominously. "And on the eve of my wedding no less. We can't have that, can we Smithers?"

"Oh no, Monty, we can't have that at all."

Rhonda held up a hand. "Wait, don't hurt me. My name's Rhonda LeBlanc; Senior Vice-President of the Plateau City Nuclear Generating Station."

"Nuclear plant, eh?" Burns purred, eyes dangerous.

Rhonda nodded, pushing herself into a sitting position.

"Well, my dear woman, this changes everything if I must say so myself." Burns took a step back, tugging the ancient dog away by its collar. "Smithers, I think you know what to do with Miss LeBlanc here, don't you?"

Smithers gave Rhonda a smile, the sort that sent a chill down her spine. "Indeed I do, Monty."

The last thing she saw was Waylon Smithers bearing down on her. She didn't even have time to scream before darkness enveloped her world.


	25. Chapter 25

Homer Simpson stood before his boss, _both_ his bosses, a Bible in his hands. He bowed his head and muttered a brief prayer. _Oh Lord, please help me say the right words this afternoon as I consecrate another gay union in your Holy name. And please keep these two together because if this marriage doesn't work your humble servant is likely to get fired from his very job and will have to live off dogfood and shame for the rest of his life. Amen_.

"Dearly beloved," he began, "we are gathered here today to witness the union of Charles Montgomery Burns and Waylon Joseph Smithers in holy matrimony, an honorable estate and not one to be entered into lightly.

Homer's eyes flicked briefly over Marge. He bowed his head and continued.

"All of us need and desired to love, and be loved in return. The highest form of love between two people is a monogamous, committed relationship. Love isn't something you say, or something you can buy, it's something you do. Love doesn't mean there won't be moments of strife. There will be mistakes, misunderstandings, and sometimes the only way to make it better is to say the two most difficult words a man can ever say: 'I'm sorry.'"

"Love has brought these two men together as husband and husband. And it is in honor of that for which we are gathered here today. I bid you all welcome, come in as strangers, leave as family."

Homer took Burns' and Smithers' hands in his. Then interlaced the men's hands. He took a step back.

Burns could hardly meet Smithers' eyes, yet he found there was nowhere else he'd rather look. He held Smithers' hand tightly. "My dearest Waylon," he began. "You know me better than anyone else in this world, and yet somehow you still manage to love me. You are my friend, my confident, the sober yin to my raging yang. Everything I am, and everything I have is yours from this moment forth, and for eternity."

Smithers smiled, finding he could not look away from Burns' eyes that so perfectly matched the sky above. "From the moment you first let me see your heart, I was yours. For all that has been, and all that my yet be, I will stand beside you. Everything I am, and everything I could ever wish to be is here beside you. I look with joy down the path of our tomorrows, knowing we will always walk it side by side, hand in hand, and heart to heart."

Homer reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, white box. He opened it, and held it before the two men. Nestled inside white velvet were two rose-colored rings. At first glance, they almost looked like rose gold, but there was a slight difference in the luster. Smithers had never seen them before. He raised his eyes questioning.

"Rose platinum," Burns whispered.

"I didn't even know they made rose platinum," Smithers mouthed back.

"They do if you're rich enough," Burns replied under his breath.

Homer waited patiently as Burns deftly lifted one ring out, and slid it over Smithers' left ring finger. "With this ring, I marry you and bind my life to yours. It is a symbol of my eternal love, my everlasting friendship, and the promise of all my tomorrows."

Smithers removed the second ring from the box. He gently slid it over Burns finger, and repeated the same words Burns had spoken. "With this ring, I marry you and bind my life to yours. It is a symbol of my eternal love, my everlasting friendship, and the promise of all my tomorrows."

Homer placed their hands together and raised them up. "By the power vested in me, and the state of North Tacoma, I now pronounce you husband and husband. Gentlemen, you may share your kiss."

Burns leaned forward, gently cupping Smithers' cheek. Smithers met him halfway, and the two men embraced. It was light and sweet, and filled with emotion. Though their quick kiss lasted but a moment, the feelings only grew.

Homer closed his Bible. "If you will all stand, it is my pleasure to present Mister and Mister Burns."

The small gathering erupted into applause as Burns and Smithers stood, hand in hand before their guests.

"So I'm a 'Burns' now, am I?" Smithers whispered over.

His husband smirked. "Only if you want to be, but our wedding planner agreed that sounded best on paper."

Smithers blushed and looked away shyly. "We'll see," he murmured.

* * *

The ceremony came to a close.

"Are you crying?" Antoine asked Preston, genuinely curious.

Preston shook his head. "It's just allergies."

"You're allergic to feels. It's okay." Antoine draped an arm casually around Preston's shoulder. "I get 'em too."

The guests followed their hosts up to the veranda for the reception lunch. It was a small affair, a buffet line up of various treats. Somewhere along the way, the chef had been informed that Lisa Simpson didn't eat meat. There were small plates available with all manner of delicacies.

Lisa helped herself to several vegetable based options then sat down next to Elliot and Rigel. "Sometimes I feel a little left out being the only vegetarian," she admitted as Donna and Bart heaped their plates with shrimp, cocktail sausages, and bacon-wrapped dates.

Rigel gave her a friendly smile. "If it makes you feel better, I never even tried meat till I was sixteen. My whole family's vegetarian. I'm the pariah because I eat meat. I sort of know how you feel." Rigel considered her plate. "Not exactly, but I understand where you're coming from."

Lisa smiled warmly.

Marge found Homer standing over by the drink table, trying to decide between beers. They had Duff, and something called Cliffboxer which he wasn't so sure about. Marge slipped an arm around her husband's waist. "That was a beautiful opening speech, Homie."

"Awww, thanks Marge. I was thinking about you when I wrote it."

Marge giggled behind her hand. "Really?"

Homer nodded. "Oh yeah. But I wasn't sure about one part."

"Oh really? Which was that?"

"The words men find most difficult to say. I'm not sure if it's 'I'm sorry,' or 'I don't know.'"

Marge helped herself to a shrimp off Homer's plate. "I'm sure they're equally hard, and it takes a big man to be able to say either."

Homer leaned in and nuzzled her cheek. "Awww, I love you Marge."

"I love you too, Homie."

Their quiet moment was interrupted by a commotion just off the steps. Marge and Homer looked up, concerned.

"Come on, man, give it back!" Bart waved his fist at a peacock. The bird, a large slice of bread in its mouth regarded him without a hint of concern.

"Hey you'll never get it back that way," Larry called out. "You gotta talk to him like a bird, see? Make him think you're one of them. Like this!" Larry threw back his head and gave a shrill call that sounded remarkably like the peafowls' calls. Donna laughed, and imitated her father. She hopped down off the porch and walked cautiously up to the peacock, hand out-stretched. The bird continued to look on, unruffled by the activity. It dropped the bread to the ground and began to eat.

"Donna Adeline, you leave that bird alone! That goes for you too, Larry!" Janet called out before returning to her meal.

At the head of the table, the newly married couple sat, able to survey the scene contentedly. "You know, Waylon, I never thought I'd say this, but I'm actually enjoying the company. Maybe, one a great while, we might entertain the idea of guests again. Not any time soon of course, but perhaps in a year or so, it would be nice. But only for about three days. After that, I'll want peace and quiet again. We can set the hounds on them if they don't leave."

"Or we could just specify dates on the invitation, and ask nicely."

Burns debated with himself for a moment. "Fine, Waylon, we can try it your way." He smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners, and leaned in to give his husband a quick kiss on the cheek.


	26. Epilogue

Antoine tossed his and Preston's suitcases onto the bed, and started unpacking. For his clothes, that was a simple matter: unzip suitcase, turn it upside down, shake till empty. It was pretty much the inverse of his packing process.

Preston, on the other hand, had a system. Everything was neatly laid out in his suitcase. For that, Antoine carefully removed each item and set it in a row on the bed. He placed Preston's clothes in a row, and started unpacking his housemate's toiletries. A pill bottle fell to the floor. Curios, Antoine picked it up. The label on the side stated it was Alprazolam. He peered at the little oval tablets through the side of the vial.

"Hey Preston," he called out, mildly concerned. "What's this?"  
"What's what?" asked Preston from the kitchen where he'd been warming a frozen pizza for dinner.

"These little pills," replied Antoine, shaking the bottle.

Preston hastily appeared in the doorway and held out a hand. "You weren't supposed to find those."

"What are they?"

Preston sighed and slipped the pill bottle into his pocket. "I'm not going to lie to you. It's Xanax. For my anxiety." Preston could caught the expression on Antoine's face. "Oh come on, don't look at me like that. I don't even know what that look means."

Antoine rubbed the back of his neck. "It means I want to make sure you're okay. It means I care about you and I worry. I knew you were struggling since that incident and all, but I guess I didn't realize how bad it was."

Preston leaned in the doorway. "Yeah, it was getting pretty bad."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Antoine asked, sitting down on his bed.

Preston looked away. "I was afraid you'd think less of me. That I was weak, or a junkie, or something. It's hard to deal with things that are all in your own head. Sometimes it seems like I'm the only one who feels this way. I don't want to let you down."

Antoine patted the bed next to him. "Come here, sit down."

Preston sat.

"Look," Antoine began firmly, "I don't judge. You're my friend, I care about you and I wanna see you succeed. I know you're going through stuff, and I know I'm not. Things affect us different. That's okay. As long as you're getting better, as long as that head doc and those peachy little pills are helping, keep up with both." Antoine put his head on Preston's shoulder, his blue hair falling around Preston's neck. "But if they stop helping, or you start feeling worse, promise me you'll tell me, okay?"

Preston leaned into Antoine. "I will, I promise. I do feel better though. Things are coming together at the plant, and I've got those public relations projects to bolster our image. Ironically, going back to Springfield actually helped."

"How?"

Preston gave a one-handed shrug. "I don't know. Maybe it was closure? Who knows. I don't think anyone exactly knows why things affect people the way they do. Why would that AlkaliStark incident leave me so shaken, while you can joke about getting shot a few weeks later? It doesn't make sense."

"Feels don't have to," Antoine replied carefully. "That's why they're called feelings, not knowings."

Preston regarded Antoine thoughtfully. "Oddly, that makes sense."

"That's what I'm here for, Preppy dog. To help you make sense of this strange, wonderful world."

Preston gave Antoine a one-armed hug. "Thanks, Antoine. You do help. You know what also helps though? Rhonda has completely been leaving me alone since we got back. I don't know why, but I like it."

Antoine leaned back and stared at Preston for a moment or two. "You didn't _know?_ " he asked, incredulous.

"Know what?"

"Jeeze, word just doesn't travel to the ivory tower does it." Antoine shook his head. "Rowdy's gone, man! Poof, disappeared. Completely of the radar. Kinda scary, actually."

The timer on the oven dinged. Preston ran into the kitchen to take the pizza out. Antoine followed him, and flopped into a stool at the breakfast bar. He folded his hands on the countertop and watched Preston amiably.

"Does anyone know what happened? And how do you even know? We just got back yesterday."

Antoine drummed his palms on the counter. "Stewart told me. Sharon sent him up there to see how she liked the new lightbulbs because she's got this sort of dimmer switch or something installed in her office, and she wasn't there. So then Stewart starts digging. And it turns out she flew to Springfield a day behind us, rented a car from the airport, and that's the last anyone's heard of her." Antoine played with a twist-tie that had gotten swept against the backsplash. "Her rental car showed up at the airport yesterday, but utterly no trace of her." He gave Preston a leer and dropped his voice. "It's like she never existed. Oooooo," he moaned.

Preston slapped his hand with a spatula.

"Quit making ghost noises. You're starting to creep me out."

Antoine snickered.

"I'm going to give Waylon a call," Preston decided as he grabbed a few plates from the cupboard. "Come on. It'll be a while before the pizza's cool enough to eat anyhow." He grabbed Antoine by the shirt sleeve and pulled him into his room at the end of the hall.

Antoine rarely went in Preston's room. It had been one of his spare room. It was smaller than the master bedroom, but cozy; and distinctly Preston.

Preston opened his laptop and entered in Smithers' number. It took a few minutes while the lines connected. Smithers answered, apparently on a tablet. He was in the library, Burns in the background.

"Preston," Smithers said cordially. "What's up?  
"There's something I want to ask you," Preston began.

"We got ourselves a mystery!" Antoine crowed, shoving his face into the frame.

"Will you get out of here!?" Preston admonished, pushing him away. "Sorry about that, Waylon. Antoine's… well, he's Antoine." Preston gave his housemate a reproachful look. Antoine made a face. "Anyhow, the gist of the matter is one of my employees has gone missing."

Smithers' face was completely bland. "Oh really?" he asked.

Preston nodded. "She flew out to Springfield a day behind us, rented a car. Then a few days later, the car showed back up at the airport, but she's been nowhere to be found." Preston paused, choosing his words carefully. "I don't suppose you know anything about that?"

Burns' voice called out from the background, but Preston could make it out.

"I'm sorry, Mister Burns. Can you repeat that?"

Burns hawk-like face appeared over Smithers' shoulder. "I said she should be landing in Bangalore any minute now."

Preston digested that for a minute. "Wait, what!?"

"With the rest of the still serviceable nuclear items," Smithers explained. "We have a power plant out there too."

Burns cut in. "We found her skulking about the grounds on the eve of our wedding. Now, I simply can't have trespassers as you well know. Since the hounds were put away aside from my dear old Crippler, Waylon and I had to handle the matter ourselves. When she said she was the senior vice-president at your plant, well, I need at least one American employee at my plant for tax purposes, so that solved things quite nicely." He patted Smithers' shoulder. "Waylon here trussed her up like a thanksgiving goose, and off she went. I'm sorry if you want her back, my boy, but I'm afraid I'm going to be hanging on to her for a while."

"Good! Keep her!" yelled Antoine from behind Preston.

Preston shushed him.

"Well, I'm not exactly sure how I feel about this…" Preston began voice trailing off.  
Smithers spoke up. "Don't worry, Preston, she'll be fine." He glanced over his shoulder at Burns. "She _will_ be fine, right? You did remember to put air holes in that crate, right?"

Burns paled slightly. "Dash it Waylon, I can't be expected to remember everything by myself can I?"

Smithers winced. "Hold please!" The screen froze for a minute. Antoine and Preston exchanged concerned looks.

A few seconds later, Smithers' feed went live again. "Yes, I just called overto our receiving department. She's fine, a bit groggy from the tranquilizers, but otherwise unharmed. You know, getting that woman into the crate was like trying to wrestle a bear. She was frightfully strong. It's a good thing we managed to get her sedated before anyone lost a limb or something."

Burns head appeared back in the screen. "I'm sorry if this leave you short staffed, Tucci, but you know what they say: finders, keepers."

Preston looked at Antoine, then nodded. "No, it's fine Mister Burns. Congratulations on your newest acquisition. I hope she brings you many years of joy."  
Burns smiled proudly. "I'm sure she will. I like to think of this as the first formal trade you and I have made, my boy. But hopefully not the last. You're not so bad. Young, perhaps; but that will change with time. I hope we might someday do business again in the future." He tossed Preston a jaunty salute, and disappeared from the screen.

"I've to get going as well," added Smithers. "It was good to see you two again though. Don't be strangers.

Antoine and Preston waved. "Bye Waylon, and thanks again."

Smithers disconnected, and the line went dead. Antoine patted Preston on the back. "Well that solves that. Now how 'bout some pizza. I bet it's cool by now."

"Antoine, I could eat dinner with you every night," Preston smiled as he stood up.

Antoine beamed. "Be careful what you say, Preppy. I might hold you too that."

Preston chuckled softly to himself. _So might I, Antoine_ , he mused fondly thinking of possible futures, _so might I_.


End file.
